


don't you ever tame your demons

by saysthemagpie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic, Roommates, don't ask too many questions about how demons work in this verse, just accept it as a premise that will allow us to contemplate niall being possessed by a sex demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: Harry's a warlock-in-training, specializing in the summoning of evil spirits. Niall's his anxious housemate. Somebody's gonna get possessed by a sex demon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a short little fic for the "I Used To Be a Baker" fest, but then it got a little angsty and complicated and it felt kinda rude to post it as a WIP (is that rude? i actually don't know). anyway, it belongs emotionally to that fest, and I'm just gonna post it now as I write the last pieces of it. should be 22-25k in all, 20k of which is drafted and ready to go.
> 
> please note the dubcon tag -- Niall experiences some intrusive (demon-induced) thoughts that contain dubcon content, but the actual sex is all enthusiastically consensual. also, I apologize to real life Xander Ritz, who is probably no more or less of a douche than your average lacrosse bro. this particular character is a work of fiction.
> 
> thanks as always to @harrymynewborngiraffe for reading a bunch of drafts of it and telling me to stop being such a drama queen. and to @mildlymaddy who yelled at me encouragingly in all caps on tumblr. pls keep doing so, and I will surely finish this week.

“Harry,” Niall says wearily, leaning against the doorframe. “Please, I’m begging you. No more demon summoning tonight.”

There’s a loud clatter, followed by a tinkling of breaking glass. “Shit,” says a muffled voice. A moment later, Harry pops up from behind a stack of what look like nineteenth-century traveling trunks. 

“Niall!” he says brightly. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Niall’s ears are still ringing from the last hell-creature's tormented shrieks, which had startled him awake so violently he'd fallen out of bed, whacked his elbow on the nightstand, and nearly strangled himself with his iPhone cord. 

He winces. “Just, remember how last month we said we’d have a house policy on demons? You know, only during normal business hours, no angry spirits on weekdays, that kind of thing?” 

“Is it not business hours?” Harry crawls out from behind the trunks, a piece of red chalk in one hand, and starts rechalking a large pentagram on the attic floor. 

“It’s half three, Harry,” Niall says, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the scent of what he’s learned to identify, after more than a year of living with Harry, as fresh sheep’s blood. It’s stuffy and hot up here, with enough candles blazing to burn the whole house to the ground three times over. 

Everyone had tried to warn him about letting his spare room to warlocks. Zayn, who used to date a witch back at uni, had told him flat-out that he was mad to even consider it. “You’ll never get the scorch marks out of the floor, mate,” he said, shaking his head when Niall first showed him Harry’s response to his Craigslist ad. “Not to mention warlocks are all a bunch of pretentious fucking hipsters.” 

The bit about the scorch marks is definitely true. The place looks like a proper warlock’s den—spiky runes chalked all over the whitewashed walls, the floor strewn with bowls brimming with dark liquids. A bookbag lies at the edge of the pentagram, battered spellbooks spilling out of it. Niall's great-aunt would be turning in her grave if she could see the state of her floors. 

A good landlord would probably put his foot down with Harry a lot more than Niall does. Like right now, when he’s got to be up for work in three hours and his tenant’s busy summoning up half of Hell directly above his bedroom. 

It’s hard to say no to Harry, though, especially when he’s looking at Niall like that, his green eyes wide and contrite. “I’m really sorry,” he says, wiping the sweat out of his eyes and leaving a long smear of blood across his forehead. “Reckon I lost track of time. Is it Monday already, then?”

“Um, it’s Tuesday, actually,” Niall says. “Or no, I guess Wednesday morning, technically speaking.” 

Harry lets out a truly alarming groan, before collapsing facedown on the floor in the middle of the pentagram. “Fuck,” he says, his voice muffled. “Fuck.”

“Is that bad?” Niall’s not sure why he feels guilty, as if he should’ve personally intervened to stop the forward march of time. 

Harry sighs, lifting his head to gaze blearily around the attic. “My midterm’s Friday and I’ve got to be able to summon and bind three distinct classes of demons,” he says in tones of deep despair. “Only I’ve somehow managed to call up Abraxas instead of Astaroth five times now, and I think he's getting quite annoyed with me.”

A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the attic, sending half the candles guttering out. Harry scowls. “No manners at all,” he mutters, setting about to relight them. 

Niall hesitates. He looks longingly towards the stairs, where his warm bed’s waiting for him, and then back at Harry, bent over the candles and muttering to himself. 

“Can I help?” he ventures, against his better judgment. “Could do you a cuppa, if you like. Or there’s some takeaway in the fridge, I think.” 

Harry straightens up, lighter in hand. “Actually—um, there is something you could help with, if you don’t mind. It’s just, I’ve got to try the summoning once more before class, and it’d be lovely to have a bit of help—”

“Oh,” Niall says. “Sorry, I don’t have any magic.”

He’s not sure why it makes him feel a little embarrassed, saying it out loud. It’s not like there are that many warlocks and witches in the world, really. Most people are like him—ordinary people doing ordinary jobs, while the magical folk get on with the more exciting work. 

There’s nothing wrong with not being the slightest bit magical; it’s just a little uncool, that’s all. He’s a little uncool. 

Not that Harry could’ve missed that. If Niall were a warlock, he wouldn't be working a shit job in data entry, moving numbers from one column to another and counting the seconds till the weekend. Niall’s seen the crowd Harry goes to school with: tall, gorgeous warlocks and witches who wear flowy garments with odd pendants strung round their necks and spend their time discussing lunar cycles and the astral plane. They're practically a different species. 

But Harry's shaking his head. “No, it’s all right,” he says. “You don’t have to have magic for this part, you just have to help anchor the casting. We learned about it in lecture last week. You’ll be, like, a conduit for my magic.” He looks up at Niall, a hopeful expression on his face. 

Niall swallows. “Um, okay," he says. "Sure.” 

“Brilliant. Maybe you could just stand over there, by that scrying thingy? I’ve just got to look up the spell, so I get the right demon.”

Niall stands where Harry directs him, feeling a little nervous. He’s never actually witnessed a summoning before. Before Harry moved in, the closest he'd ever come to magic was the harmless little spells kids liked to do at sleepovers: simple séances, a bit of light conjuring. Demons are advanced magic, the kind you have to do a degree at warlock college for if you want to summon professionally. 

“So it matters which one you get?” he asks hesitantly. “Like, they do different things?”

“Oh yeah,” Harry says confidently. “Though I’m not sure what exactly, had to skim that chapter in the textbook. To tell you the truth, I’m a little behind.” He rummages around in his bookbag, producing a gnarled piece of wood Niall assumes must be a wand. “Okay, just clear your mind, if you can? It’ll help my magic enter you more easily.”

Niall feels his cheeks go pink at Harry’s words, though it’s fortunately dark enough that Harry doesn’t seem to notice. He steers him towards the top point of the pentagram, the metal of his warlock’s rings cold against Niall’s flushed skin. 

It makes Niall shiver, just a little. He doesn’t let himself indulge his feelings for Harry very often. The two of them are on friendly terms, of course; they play FIFA together on occasion, and sometimes Harry’ll cook dinner for them both. Mostly, though, Niall’s just the person Harry writes a check to on the first of every month and texts when the upstairs shower drain gets clogged. If Niall maybe, sort of, sometimes wishes there were something more between them, he keeps it to himself. Harry’s way out of his league—stupidly fit and a warlock to boot, even if he weren’t Niall’s tenant. 

Still. He can't deny it's nice having Harry this close, beaming at him like Niall’s hung the moon. 

"Perfect," says Harry, taking his position opposite Niall. "That's perfect. Now just hang on, it shouldn't take more than a minute."

He lifts his wand in the air. “ _Lirach tasa vefa wehlic Belial,_ ” he intones, in deep, guttural tones, making a series of dramatic flourishes. “ _Renich tasa uberaca_ – uh, _uberaca_. Wait, hang on. _Uberaca biasa icar_!” He stabs at the air, an expectant look on his face.

Nothing happens.

“Hmm,” says Harry, glancing sidelong at Niall. “Interesting.” 

Niall clears his throat. “Uh—has it come through, then? The demon?”

“Not exactly,” Harry says. “Let me just try again.” 

The second time through sounds exactly the same to Niall. Something must be different, though, because as Harry speaks, a dense, poisonous-looking green fog begins to gather at the center of the pentagram. 

Harry tilts his head, staring at it. “Does that fog look sort of purplish to you?” 

“More greenish, maybe?” Niall says uncertainly. At the crestfallen look on Harry’s face, he squints at again and adds, “But ah, with a sort of purplish undertone, maybe?"

Harry picks up his spellbook and turns it upside down, studying it. He glances at Niall, then back down at the book, before declaring in a loud, cheerful voice, “Oh, of course! Got the places wrong. Quick, switch with me and it might still work.” 

"Oh, look out!” Niall says, reaching for him. 

But it’s too late. As he steps forward Harry’s foot catches on the strap of his bookbag. He trips, looking startled as he stumbles into Niall’s arms. 

For a brief second they stay suspended like that—caught in an embrace, almost as if they’re dancing. Then Harry does a complicated sort of half-pirouette, says “Whoops!” and loses his balance completely, toppling over sideways and taking Niall down with him.

They hit the ground with a thud, Harry sprawled out on top of Niall, their limbs tangled together. There’s fog everywhere, growing denser by the second, but Niall can still make out Harry’s face, just centimeters away. His eyes are wide and green, his full pink mouth slightly parted in an _O_ of surprise. 

A weird surge of energy sparks down his spine. 

Niall shivers, hips jerking hard against Harry’s. Harry’s eyes go even wider, but he doesn’t make any move to roll off him. It's like he's frozen in place, staring down at him. Another shiver courses through him, more violent this time. His body feels like a power grid, humming and sparking at high voltage, little zaps of electricity flickering along his nerve-endings. His hips rock up again, almost of their own accord, and he sees reflected in Harry’s eyes the exact moment when they both realize Niall’s half-hard. 

“You—” Harry starts to say.

Niall cuts him off, surging up to capture his mouth in a kiss.

He feels rather than hears Harry's sharp intake of breath—feels the quick rush of air after, too, as Harry breathes back out against Niall’s mouth. There’s a pause, no longer than the space of a heartbeat, and then suddenly Harry’s kissing him back, with such fierceness it leaves Niall breathless. 

Harry's mouth is soft and plush, hot inside when Niall coaxes it open, sucking gently at his tongue. He tastes faintly of sweat and bitter sage, and also, weirdly, of blood, which should maybe be more off-putting than it is. 

Niall can’t think about that, though. Can’t think about anything except Harry’s long, lean body melting into his, soft everywhere except for the growing bulge between his legs, trapped in his tight jeans. Niall slides his hands up to Harry’s hips, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt. He slots a knee between Harry’s legs, pulling him down as he thrusts up. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps out, eyes squeezing shut. He rolls his hips forward again and again, rutting against him, riding Niall’s thigh. His breathing is harsh and loud in Niall’s ear, ticklish, and Niall tightens his grip on Harry’s hips, turning his head so he can nose at Harry’s neck. Without warning he sinks his teeth deep into Harry’s shoulder, biting into the exposed juncture of his shoulder and neck. 

Harry cries out, hips jerking hard. “Oh,” he says, “oh, _oh_ ,” as Niall keeps licking and sucking at the mark on his shoulder, grazing over it with his teeth. Niall thinks it must hurt a little, Harry’s dick trapped in those tight jeans of his, rubbing against the zipper with every thrust. 

_He likes it_ , a low voice murmurs in Niall’s head. His eyes fly open—he hadn’t even realized they were shut—and he stares at Harry. He sees the glazed-over expression on his face, the way he’s biting hard enough at his own lip to draw blood, and he knows, without understanding _how_ he knows, that it’s true. That Harry likes it. That it makes him feel a little desperate, a little slutty, the discomfort making the pleasure keener. 

Something flickers across Niall’s consciousness: a dark, fluttering thing. He feels, for the space of an instant, a curious sensation, his body moving of its own accord, limbs working without the coordination of his brain. 

His lips part. “Mine,” he growls, his voice low and guttural, and Harry sobs, ruts frantically against him, and comes.

*

Time seems to slow. 

Niall’s staring up at the rafters, Harry still on top of him. His head rests on Niall’s shoulder, a heavy weight. Niall blinks once. Twice. He moves his hand up under Harry’s thin shirt, presses it against the sweat-damp hollow of his back. 

“Wow,” Harry says finally. “That was—wow.” He laughs, a shaky sound. “Pretty sure they didn’t mention that in lecture.” 

Niall blinks again. His toes twitch, like an aftershock. It occurs to him that he’s still hard.

Harry notices, too. “Ooh, sorry,” he says, and then he’s shifting down Niall’s body. He slides his fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his trackies, easing them down. Niall's cock springs free, thick and leaking already at the tip. Harry eyes it, a hungry look on his face.

“Can I,” he says throatily, glancing up at Niall. 

Niall’s throat feels too dry to speak. He nods, and Harry lowers his head, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to the tip, then another, practically snogging the head of Niall’s cock. It would be maddening, ridiculous even, if only it didn’t feel so fucking good, Harry’s soft lips dragging over the spongy head, tongue darting out to lap at the slit. 

Niall groans.

“Harry,” he manages, needing more, too turned on for teasing. Harry must take pity on him, because the next moment he’s bobbing his head down, taking him so deep Niall’s leg kicks out in a stunned reflex. 

It shouldn’t surprise him, learning that Harry’s as brilliant at giving head as he is at lounging around the house looking fit and warlocky. Shouldn’t make his stomach twist, watching Harry suck him off with well-practiced ease. Niall’s not a jealous person as a rule. It’s mortifying enough that he’d growled _Mine_ in the heat of passion, especially when he knows it’s not true. Harry’s brought loads of people home: women, men, a handful of intimidatingly beautiful people of indeterminate gender. Niall can’t count the number of Saturday mornings he’d spent making stilted smalltalk last year, waiting for Harry to emerge from his bedroom, sleep-rumpled and slightly rueful. 

Harry's not his. This—Harry looking up at him from the V of his thighs, not breaking eye contact as he slowly deep-throats Niall’s cock—is a one time thing, something Harry’s going to forget about and Niall’s going to spend the next twenty years wanking over. 

He gets that. Which is why it's so weird that the thought of Harry doing this to someone else, looking up at them with heavy-lidded eyes, makes Niall feel almost insane with jealousy.

He thrusts a possessive hand into Harry’s curls. He tugs hard, pushing his hips up. Harry chokes a little at first, surprised, then groans redoubling his efforts.

Niall doesn’t last long after that. He thrusts forward into the wet heat of Harry's mouth and then comes with a grunt, feeling Harry’s throat flex around him as he swallows him down. 

When Niall’s spent Harry lifts his head and looks up at him, a smug grin on his face.

The grin fades quickly, though, replaced by an uneasy look. 

“What?” Niall says, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness. 

“Niall,” Harry says. “Just out of curiosity, how’re you feeling right now?”

Niall’s pretty sure he’s never felt better in his entire life. It must be past four, but he feels wide-awake and full of energy, like he’s just finished running a marathon but could still jog out the front door and climb Mount Everest straightaway. That seems like it might be coming on a bit strong, though, so he settles for, “Uh, pretty good.” 

“It’s just,” Harry says, not taking his eyes off Niall’s face. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but there’s a very slight possibility you've just been possessed.”

“What?”

“By a demon,” Harry says, sounding apologetic. “Just now you were kind of glowing, a bit? And your eyes kind of changed color for a second.”

Niall sits up, awkwardly tucking away his softening dick. Christ, he hopes he hasn’t been possessed. How embarrassing would that be? Not to mention a bit difficult to explain at work.

“What color?” he asks. “Sometimes they look a bit different in the light.”

“Ah,” Harry says. “They were sort of—black, actually. Pure black. So I’m leaning towards demon possession, yeah.”

“I feel fine, though,” Niall insists. “Anyway, wouldn’t it have gone for you first? I don’t even have magic.”

“I've got this.” Harry fishes something out from under his shirt. It looks like a fragment of bone wrapped in rough-spun wool, and smells very strongly of licorice. Niall's always just assumed it was some kind of weird hipster jewelry. “Protective amulet. Repels anything looking for a body to possess." Harry's eyes go wide. “Oh shit. I probably should've made one for you.”

Niall puts his hands out in front of him, staring at them. They look normal enough—maybe a bit dry, the cuticles ragged from where he gnaws at them sometimes when he's feeling anxious. “How d’you know if you’re possessed?” 

“I dunno,” Harry says worriedly. “I’ve never actually seen it happen before. You don’t suddenly want to bathe in the blood of infants or anything, do you?” 

Niall makes a face. “No, definitely not.” 

“So it’s not Astaroth,” Harry says, reaching over to grab his textbook and dragging it into his lap. “And I don’t think that was Abraxas that time either.”

“How can you tell?” 

“Oh, he’s a lot shoutier,” Harry explains. “Also he doesn't like me much, so if he’d made you his host he probably would’ve tried to strangle me already, or cut off all my hair or something. He thinks I've got stupid hair.” 

“He told you that?” 

Harry shrugs. “More or less. He doesn’t talk, exactly, it's pretty much all gibbering and howling. But you can sort of tell what he means, you know?”

Niall doesn’t know, but he nods anyway, trying to look reassured. He doesn't want Harry thinking he’s worried about a little thing like a demon possession. 

“I can run a diagnostic spell if you like.” Harry reaches for his wand. “Just to see if there’s, like, anything inside you that shouldn’t be inside you.” 

_No_.

Niall doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Harry looks up at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Sorry, just—maybe tomorrow?" he adds quickly. "I just should try and get some sleep before work, that’s all. Big presentation tomorrow, and all.”

“Oh.” Harry looks uncertain, but he nods. “Well, I suppose that’s all right then, if you’re feeling okay. I’ll just stay up for a bit longer and try to finish up some of this reading. Maybe if I go back a chapter I can figure out what it was.”

“No need,” Niall says easily. “Got your big exam Friday, right? You should get some sleep, and I’ll just let you know if I start feeling off.” 

He helps Harry pick up his scattered textbooks, stacking them neatly near the edge of the pentagram. Harry blushes a little when their hands brush, drawing back so quickly he almost upsets a nearby bowl of sheep’s blood. He doesn’t mention the fact that they’ve just sort of, kind of, had sex, so Niall doesn’t bring it up either. He tries not to stare too obviously the wet spot at the front of Harry’s jeans.

It’s all right, he tells himself as he starts to descend the narrow stairs to his bedroom. It was late, and they were both a little delirious. Things had gotten a little out of hand, that’s all. 

“Niall?” 

He turns, a hand on the railing. 

Harry’s standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs looking down at him. He looks flushed and radiant, his face haloed by the soft, flickering glow of the candlelight. “Thanks,” he says, slightly breathless. “For your help, I mean. Sorry I woke you up.” 

A pang goes through Niall. For a moment he almost wishes—but no. There's no point, really, in thinking like that. 

“That’s all right,” he says. “Sleep well, Harry.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Niall,” Harry says loudly. “Niall, wake up. Do you want to rob a bank?”

Niall startles awake, blinking blearily. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, slumped over a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of lukewarm coffee. 

Harry's sitting in the chair next to him, staring intently at him. He's clad only in a pair of skimpy pajama bottoms, despite the chill in the air, and he looks far too awake for someone who can't have slept more than an hour or two. 

“Wha—right now?” Niall asks groggily. “I’ve got work.” 

“No,” Harry says. "I mean, are you feeling a weird, overpowering urge to drive to the nearest bank and hold it up at gunpoint?"

Niall shakes his head. "Too tired for bank robbery," he says. He hadn't slept a wink, just spent the two hours between leaving the attic and his alarm going off staring up at the ceiling, fretting. The longer he'd lain awake, the more ludicrous it seemed, the fact that he'd actually _kissed_ Harry Styles. That he'd made Harry come in his pants like a teenager, just from rutting against his thigh. That Harry had willingly, even eagerly, sucked him off right there on the floor of Niall's own attic, like that was the kind of thing they did together, like Niall was the kind of person who just got casual blowjobs from his fit warlock roommate at four in the morning on a weeknight.

Temporary insanity, Niall had concluded, no doubt brought on by the stress of Harry's exams. He's ashamed of himself for taking advantage, when Harry's emotional defenses were clearly down. He can only hope that if they never mention it again, it won't fuck up the household dynamic irreparably.

“I’ve been reading up on the demons who might’ve possessed you,” says Harry, tapping his finger against his lips. Niall looks at them, then quickly back down at his plate. “The bank robbery thing rules out a few possibilities. Oh, and I made you something.” He leaps up and disappears into the kitchen, reemerging a moment later with two glasses full of a lumpy green liquid. “Here, drink it. It’ll make you feel loads better.”

“Is it a potion?” Niall asks dubiously.

“In a manner of speaking,” Harry says. “Kale smoothie. Nature’s magic, you know.” He settles back into his chair, takes a long swig out of his own glass, and lets out a contented sigh. 

Niall has a sudden, visceral memory of Harry making a similar sound just a few hours earlier, up in the attic, those pink lips of his stretched obscenely wide around Niall’s cock. "Thanks," he says, and picks up his glass, gulping half of the smoothie down in one go. He suppresses a grimace at the taste. "I really don't think I'm possessed, though." 

“D’you feel like starting a pyramid scheme, maybe?” Harry asks, leaning forward. His gaze drops to Niall’s mouth for half a second, before flicking smoothly back up again. “Did you know that almost ninety percent of pyramid schemes are founded by demons? Kinda brilliant, if you think about it. Like, why just fuck up one person’s life when you can fuck up loads of people’s lives? Saves you time for other acts of evil.”

“I don’t want to fuck up anybody’s life, though,” Niall says helplessly. “Financially or otherwise.” 

Harry studies him for a moment. Then he sighs, slumping back in his chair. “Maybe the summoning didn’t work," he says glumly. "I’m pretty rubbish at spell-casting.”

“You, uh—you seemed really good at it,” Niall says. He doesn't know much about it, really, and possibly Harry's performance had been a little rough around the edges. But the wand flourishes had been impressive. 

Something flickers across Harry’s expression. “I’m not, actually,” he says. “Mostly I just wave my arms around like an idiot and hope for the best. I'm probably going to fail my exam Friday.” He slumps down in his chair, looking dejected.

“Don’t say that,” Niall says quickly. “You must be good, right? Otherwise they wouldn’t have let you into warlock college in the first place. I’ve got a second cousin up in Dublin who’s got a bit of magic, and they’ve turned her down three years running. She works in insurance now.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, staring down into his glass. “I dunno.” 

“I’m serious.” Niall’s got fuck-all idea what makes somebody good at magic, but he doesn’t like seeing that expression on Harry’s face. “It’s sick, living with a warlock. I tell all my friends about you, you know.” 

That earns him a real smile, dimple and all. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Niall says. Usually the topic of Harry comes up when they’ve had a few too many at the pub and Louis’ taking the piss about Niall’s love life, or the sad lack thereof. He reddens a little at the thought and picks up his glass, forcing down another swallow of his smoothie. 

“There’s more in the blender,” Harry says, standing up. For a second his crotch is uncomfortably close to Niall’s face, the waistband of his briefs riding just below the little pudgy love handles he's always complaining about when he does calisthenics in the living room. Christ, Niall thinks. It’d be so easy just to reach out and yank the band down a little further, to drop to his knees right here in the kitchen and swallow that fat, gorgeous cock down to the root. 

He chokes on the last of his smoothie. 

“Was that a murderous impulse?” Harry says excitedly. “It _was,_ wasn’t it?”

“Gah,” Niall says in a strangled voice. He leaps up from the table, groping blindly for his briefcase. “No! No, just realized I’m late for work.”

“But it’s only seven,” Harry says. 

“Special project,” Niall lies. “You know how it is with data entry. Nose to the grindstone and all that.” He laughs, a slightly maniacal sound.

“Wow,” Harry says, sounding impressed. “Right, yeah. Okay, but promise you’ll text me right away if you feel even a little bit stabby?” 

“Will do,” Niall says, dropping his plate in the sink with a clatter. 

Harry trails after him into the entry hall. He picks up Niall’s scarf off the banister, winding it around his hand. “One more thing,” he says. “I was going to ask you this before, but—I’m on the organizing committee for the winter solstice party this year, and we're meant to find a place off campus to host it. I thought, maybe we could have it here, if you don't mind? It'll just be people from the department and, like, significant others.” 

“Yeah, 'course, that’s fine,” says Niall hastily, shrugging on his coat. Harry hesitates.

“You could come too,” he says. “If you wanted. Since it'll be right here, and everything.” 

Niall made the mistake of going for drinks with Harry’s mates exactly once, right after Harry first moved in. When Harry cheerfully introduced him to the table (“This is Niall, guys, he works in data processing!”) everyone had looked at him pityingly and then spent the rest of the evening ignoring him, busy debating the advantages of mandrake root over milk thistle and bemoaning the state of modern sorcery. 

"Uh, maybe," he says vaguely. "Might have a thing, though. Data thing. Lots of numbers to crunch.”

“Oh,” Harry says, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Right, yeah. Well, if you change your mind.”

_Say yes._

“What?” Niall says. 

Harry frowns. “I said, if you change your mind—”

_Yes._

Niall’s head snaps up. “It got cancelled,” he says. 

Harry gapes at him. “What?”

“The data thing.” Niall’s got no idea what he’s saying, but the words just spill out of him, easy as anything. “I forgot it was cancelled. So I can come to your party.” 

“But I didn’t even tell you the date,” Harry says, surprised. 

“I know when the winter solstice is,” Niall says, and he’s surprised to realize that it’s true. Must’ve seen it on a calendar or something. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Harry.” 

Harry looks down at the scarf in his hands. “Cool,” he says. “That’s—um, I'm really glad. It's going to be sick.” The curve of his dimple’s showing, and Niall wants, with a sudden urgency, to press his tongue into the well of it. He wants to take Harry’s face into his hands and kiss him all over, tasting the sweetness of that hesitant smile. 

Jesus. What the hell's wrong with him? First that—that _thought_ in the kitchen, and now he’s composing Hallmark cards to Harry’s dimple? Just because Harry doesn’t seem too bothered about last night doesn’t mean he wants Niall to grab his face, or any other part of his body for that matter, and start licking it.

Niall shakes his head to clear it, fumbling for the door. A gust of wintry air rushes in. 

“Your scarf,” Harry says, holding it out to him. 

Niall takes it. When his fingers brush against Harry’s bare wrist, something zings down his spine again, a tiny electric shock. His eyes drop, almost of their own accord, to where the cold’s stiffened Harry’s nipples into hard little nubs.

“Thanks, petal,” he says with a faint smile, dragging his gaze slowly back up Harry’s body. 

A pink flush creeps up Harry’s chest. He licks his lips. 

“Niall,” he says, making a little movement forward. “Niall, I—”

“See you tonight,” Niall says, and, turning, steps out into the cold. 

*

He spends most of the morning at work with his head on his desk, incapacitated by wave after wave of humiliation. 

“I’m just not sure I’m getting it,” says Liam carefully. He’s perched on the edge of Niall’s desk, and Niall doesn’t have to look at him to know what kind of face he’s making, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Could you tell me one more time, maybe? Slower? So you fooled around a bit, and then this morning he invited you to a party, and that’s—a bad thing?” 

“I called him _petal_ ,” Niall says, his voice muffled. “And I looked at his _nipples_. Like some sort of—skeezy sex perv, or something.” 

“Personally I think it’s weird that he’s got four of them,” says Louis, his head popping up from behind the wall that divides their cubicles. “Reckon it’s a bad sign, someone absorbing their twin in the womb. I bet he’s got evil twin magic and he’s put a spell on you.”

“I’m not under a spell,” Niall snaps. He lifts his head. “Nobody asked you, anyway. I’m having a private conversation with Liam.”

“Touchy, touchy,” tuts Louis. “Exactly the kind of reaction I’d expect from someone who’s been bewitched.” 

“He’s kind of got a point.” Liam sounds thoughtful. “I mean, not about the evil twin thing, obviously, but maybe it’s got something to do with the summoning spell. D’you think maybe you really are possessed?”

“Yeah, right,” Niall says sarcastically, lifting his head. “Possessed by a demon who wants to wrap his housemate up in a blanket and feed him homemade chicken soup by the fireside.”

“Ew," says Louis, looking revolted. “Is that seriously what you want to do to him?”

“And, um. Other stuff,” says Niall, reddening. As it happens, he’s been having extraordinarily detailed fantasies about what he’d like to do to Harry all morning. It’s like a floodgate’s been opened in his brain or something. Apparently his subconscious is a lot filthier—and also far more interested in expensive bondage equipment—than he’d ever realized. “The point is, demons are all about murder and mayhem, right? And bank-robbing, I guess. And bathing in the blood of infants. But I don’t want to do any of that.”

“Maybe there’s other kinds,” Liam insists. “Or maybe it’s not a demon, just some kind of spirit thingy.” 

Niall’s mobile pings. 

“Bet it’s from Harry,” Louis says, craning his neck over the cubicle wall to try and read it. Niall snatches it away from him, glaring at him. It is from Harry, as it happens. 

_Hiiii. How are you feeling? H. x_

Niall shows Liam. “What should I tell him?” 

“Tell him you want his dick," Louis suggests. 

“Lou,” Liam says in a shocked voice. "We're at work."

Niall ignores them both. **hey Harry whats up . just at work . dont worry Havent stabbed anybdy yet ha ha . hows ur studyin goin**

Three dots appear at the bottom of the window. They all stare at the screen, waiting.

 _It’s going okay. Thanks for helping me with the spell last night._  
_I had a really nice time._  
_Sorry is that dumb to say_

Niall feels a sudden surge of fondness. **not dumb t say !! i had a really nice time too .** He adds a smiley at the end, for good measure.

“Ooh, a smiley.” Louis’ come round into his cubicle so he can read over Niall’s shoulder properly. “Bold, Horan. So forward. A real skeezy sex perv thing to do.” 

“Don’t you lot have work to do?” 

The three of them startle guiltily. Danielle, their office manager, is standing in the door, her arms full of papers and a stern expression on her face. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” says Louis quickly, then winces. “I mean, miss. Er. Danielle. Ms. Campbell. I was just counseling Horan here on, um, some important data configuration points. For the Merriweather account.” 

“I wasn’t working,” Liam confesses, and looks so repentant Danielle’s expression visibly softens. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Campbell. I’ll work straight through lunch today to make up for it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Liam,” she says. “Just a little less chatter, please. Horan, Tomlinson, I expect those Merriweather reports on my desk by five o’clock sharp.” 

Louis groans when she’s gone, then twists Liam’s nipple for good measure. “It’s not fair, you having those eyebrows,” he says as Liam yelps in distress. “We can’t all have _shame eyebrows_.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says sadly, his eyebrows knitting together. It earns him another nipple-twist.

“Oi, leave him alone, he only uses his powers for good,” Niall says, pulling up the Merriweather spreadsheets. “And _ma’am_ , eh? Bold, Tommo. Forward.”

“Shut up,” Louis grumbles. “Come on, Payno. Back to the grind.” 

“Wait, wait, hang on,” Niall says. “What am I supposed to do about Harry?”

“You could always ask him on a date,” Liam says. “Dinner and a movie, maybe? Ooh, or ice-skating. They’ve just opened the rink down at the park. I bet that’d be lovely.”

“Then shag him again, obviously,” says Louis, puffing up his chest a bit. “Christ, Neil, s’like you need someone to hold your dick and tell you where to put it.”

“ _Tomlinson_!” 

“Figure of speech, ma’am!” calls Louis hastily. “Er, someone to—hold your data and tell you where to input it, that's what I meant.” He pats Niall on the shoulder and heads back to his cubicle, calling over his shoulder, "Buck up, Neil, and stop worrying. Just let it happen, yeah? Obviously whatever you've been doing is working."

"But I haven't done anything," Niall says helplessly, looking at his mobile. Harry's responded only with a line of smiley faces of his own and the dancing salsa lady emoji.

Christ, Niall's totally out of his depth here. He wishes someone would just tell him what he's meant to do.

*

“Pythius,” Harry says, his face screwed up in concentration. “No, wait—Paimon?”

“Sorry, it’s Pruflas.” Niall shows Harry the back of the card, on which someone’s carefully drawn an image of a demon with a hawk’s head and a man’s body, perched atop a large black bear. “Causes men to commit quarrels and tell lies.” 

It’s Thursday night and he’s meant to be down at the pub, playing trivia with the lads and Zayn. Halfway through dinner, though, he’d somehow managed to volunteer himself to help Harry cram for his midterms. It's just, he sort of feels invested now, after the incident last night. Or maybe it was just that Harry had looked so miserable, sitting there at the kitchen table surrounded by stacks upon stacks of dusty textbooks, a look of hopeless despair on his face.

Niall’s such a sucker. 

“Pruflas,” Harry repeats with a groan, slumping back into the sofa cushions. They’ve been at it for about two hours now and still haven’t made it all the way through his deck of color-coded flashcards. “I always forget him. Wait, so which one’s Pythius, then?”

“Um, hang on.” Niall shuffles the cards till he finds the right one. “Oh, he’s a spirit of liars too. So you were close.” 

“Not close enough.” Harry sighs and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, leaning back to stretch out the full length of his lean body. Niall looks back down at the card in his hand, so he won’t stare at where Harry’s t-shirt’s rucked up a bit to reveal a few inches of lightly tanned skin. 

Neither of them has mentioned the whole sex-in-the-attic thing, or the text messages from earlier. It’s a bit disappointing, Niall can admit that much, but at least it doesn’t seem like things are going to be awkward between them. He only feels a little stupid for looking up the skating rink’s hours after work, just in case.

“Think I summoned Pythius once by accident, actually, first year,” Harry muses. “I had to have Xan—er, my TA banish him.” 

“What was he like?”

“Sort of squinty." Harry makes a vague gesture. “And shorter than you’d think. They usually are.” 

Niall looks at the hawk-faced demon. “Why’s that, do you think?”

“Dunno,” Harry says. “You can’t ask them straight out, either, or they get all huffy and refuse to do anything for you. They’re a bit touchy about stuff like that, demons are. They're always insisting they’re, like, nine feet tall with beards made of wild snakes and fire for hair, and then they show up and they’re about five feet and can't grow a mustache.” 

Niall snorts and adds Pruflas’s card in the rapidly growing stack of do-overs. “So why do warlocks summon demons, anyway?”

“Power, mostly,” says Harry. “Like, if you wanted to crush your opponents in battle or stage a coup or something. Also they’re good for powering, like, medium-sized appliances, if you get the binding spells right.” 

“Whoa, really?” 

“Yeah, but they kind of resent it,” Harry says. “That’s why our coffee always tastes like the tears of damned souls.” 

Niall blinks. “Is that what that is? I just thought we needed to change the filter.” 

“That too, probably,” says Harry. “All right, hit me. I’m ready.” 

Niall sifts through the deck, choosing a card at random. This one doesn’t have a picture, just a name and description. _Rosier – demon of seduction and sex_ , Harry’s written in a big, looping hand, and beneath it, _“Puts foolish words on lips of smitten lovers” – Dictionnaire Infernal. Possession type: progressive._

“I hope it’s not Aeshma,” Harry says anxiously. “Is it Aeshma?”

A wave of sudden dizziness passes over Niall. Dark spots dance before his eyes for a moment, then vanish. He turns the card over, sliding it back into the deck. 

“Pythius, actually,” he says. He clears his throat, changing the subject. “What about all those spells you’ve got to memorize? Want to work on those for a bit?”

They make it another forty minutes or so before Harry starts getting frustrated. He’s been restless for a while now, shifting on the couch, elbows and long limbs everywhere. Niall’s been slowly retreating further and further into the corner, to try and give him more room, but Harry seems to just stretch out to fill the available space, starfishing himself across the couch.

“I can’t do it,” Harry moans, and drops his head into Niall’s lap, tilting his head to look up at him. “Niall, don’t make me do it.” 

Niall very carefully doesn’t move. He’s not entirely sure he’s still breathing.

“You’re doing so well, though,” he says. “Look, you’ve only got half this list left.”

"Can’t,” Harry says, pouting a little. 

“What if,” Niall says, then stops. He swallows. “What if we try positive reinforcement? Like, if you get one right, you get, uh—a reward.”

Harry chews thoughtfully at his bottom lip. “Like what?”

Niall glances at the list of spells in his hand, so he won't stare at Harry's mouth. “First tell me what you need to make a deal with a crossroads demon.” 

“That's easy," Harry says. "A bone from a black cat, or milk from a black cow, if you have it.” 

Niall nods. He wonders if Harry can feel how fast his heart is beating.

“Graveyard dirt, and a box.” Harry’s brow furrows. “With, um—a picture of the person who’s making the deal in it, I think. You have to bury it.”

“Yeah," Niall says. "Um, one more."

"And then you'll give me a reward, right?" Harry asks, looking up at him. "If I get it right, you'll give me something nice." 

There's heat in his gaze, and Niall's not an idiot. He's got a pretty good idea where this is heading, even if he still can't believe it's actually happening. He swallows hard. "Yeah. I'll—yeah." 

Harry licks his lips. "Yarrow," he says. 

Niall’s careful this time. He leans down slowly, giving Harry plenty of chance to squirm away, to put a hand on his chest and push him off. Harry doesn’t, though. He lies still and quiet beneath him, and when Niall’s mouth brushes against his he makes a soft, pleased sound, tilting his face up into the kiss. 

It only lasts a moment before Niall draws back. “That’s good,” he says, a bit shakily. He squints at the list, trying to find his place. “Um, next is—”

Harry sits up abruptly. “Sorry,” he says breathlessly, “sorry, I just,” and then he’s launching himself at Niall, knocking him back into the cushions. 

It’s almost frantic, the way Harry lunges for his mouth again, like someone's flipped a switch in his brain. He seems almost frenzied, grabbing fistfuls of Niall’s shirt to pull him closer, like if he doesn’t snog Niall’s face off now he won’t get another chance. It’s not exactly an _I had a nice time_ kind of kiss.

“Can you—” Harry gasps, tugging at his shirt, shifting restlessly in his lap. “I want—can we—”

Niall can feel the fat jut of Harry’s cock in his jeans. He doesn’t want to make Harry come like this again, though. He wants to see him this time. Wants to feel him. 

“Want to fuck you,” he blurts out, and it's not what he meant to say, not even _close_ , but it makes Harry groan loudly, grinding down in his lap.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, let’s—I’ve got stuff in my room.” He stumbles to his feet, tugging impatiently at Niall’s hand. 

Harry’s room is much tidier than his den up in the attic, his bed neatly made, the corners turned crisply back. The only way Niall can tell the two rooms belong to the same person is that nearly every flat surface apart from the floor is covered with candles. Briefly he wonders if he ought to take out a bigger home insurance policy, or maybe equip Harry’s bedroom with a couple fire extinguishers. 

“C’mere,” Harry says. He pulls him in for a quick, filthy snog, lots of tongue, then steps back and starts stripping off his clothes. 

They wind up on the bed, bodies tangled together as they kiss. Harry rocks his hips against Niall's in little frantic thrusts, both of them groaning at the friction. Harry fumbles blindly in his drawer of his bedside table, producing a half-empty bottle of lube and a foil-wrapped condom. When Niall reaches for the lube he bats his hand away.

"Got it," he says, and twists the cap off, squeezing some of it onto his fingers. Niall props himself up on one elbow, trying to catch his breath, and watches Harry finger himself open. lying on his back with one knee pulled up to his chest. It's quick and perfunctory, and Harry stares up at the ceiling as he's doing it, his face and chest flushed pink. When he's ready he rolls over onto his belly and pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, head hanging down between his arms. 

"Okay," he says. "You can do it now."

Niall hesitates. He sort of wants it the other way—he wants to see Harry, at least the first time—but he doesn’t say anything, afraid it'll break the mood, or make Harry reconsider. He rolls the condom on as quickly as he can, then shuffles up behind Harry, letting the head of his cock snub up against Harry’s lube-slick entrance.

Harry’s tighter than Niall had expected. Tenser, too. When he pushes inside, just a little, Harry’s back goes taut, his shoulders a rigid line. 

Niall stops. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?” 

It's a second before Harry responds. "Yeah," he says, pushing back a little. Niall slips a hand down to stroke his cock, thinking it might help him relax. To his surprise, he discovers that Harry’s gone soft. 

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, sounding mortified. He turns his head, pressing his forehead against his arm. “Just—you can keep going, sorry.” 

Heat pools in Niall’s gut. His hips inch forward, pressing deeper inside, and Harry makes a small, muffled noise. _Yes,_ Niall thinks. The heat’s rising, spreading. _Yes. Mine._

“Sorry,” Harry breathes again, quieter this time, like he's not expecting Niall to hear it.

Niall comes back to himself with a start. “No, no, it’s okay,” he says immediately, and pulls back, the head of his cock slips free. “We can stop, all right? Or slow down, whatever.” 

_Fool._

It’s his own voice, but—not, somehow. Another wave of dizziness sweeps over him, so intense he has to put a hand down on the mattress to steady himself. 

“I want to.” Harry twists around to look at him, his expression worried and earnest. “I really do. It’s just—it’s been a while.” 

“S’okay,” Niall manages to say. His voice sounds odd, thick and sort of choked. “S’good, we c’n—” 

There’s something sticky on his face. He puts a hand to his mouth, frowning when it comes away wet.

“Oh no,” Harry says, eyes widening. “Hang on, you’ve got a nosebleed.” He scrambles off the bed, disappearing into the ensuite. A moment later he reemerges, a towel in hand. “Here," he says. "Tilt your head forward a bit, or it’ll go right down the back of your throat. Used to get them all the time when I was a kid.”

The bleeding doesn’t stop for nearly ten solid minutes. By that point Harry’s ushered him into the kitchen and made him sit at the table, pinching the bridge of his nose as Harry bustles around in his briefs making tea. The whole thing should be embarrassing, but Harry fusses over him so much, chattering happily about various nosebleeds he’s had in the past, that after a bit it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. 

“Got one during my first kiss, if you can believe it,” Harry says, putting a mug down in front of him and swapping out Niall's bloody towel for a fresh one. “Better drink this. I put a replenishing potion in it.” 

“Has it got kale in it?” Niall asks, eyeing it dubiously. There are little bits floating on the surface, like it hasn’t been strained properly.

“Oh, no, just liverwort,” Harry says, as if that’s meant to be reassuring. “Anyway, so we were down by this creek near my house that had all these trees round it. And I was leaning up against one of them, sort of posing, you know, and talking rubbish about how I was going to cut it down for her—”

“Wait, what?” Niall asks. “Why?”

“Who knows,” Harry shrugs. “I was thirteen. Guess I thought it might be a turn-on for her, thinking about me using my big muscles.” He flexes his skinny arms for Niall. “Like a sexy lumberjack or something, you know.” 

“Did it work?”

“Must’ve,” Harry says, looking a bit smug. “Well, either that or she really wanted me to stop talking, ‘cos she just sort of jumped at me and knocked our faces together really hard. The whole time I just kept thinking, _Oh my god, I’m getting snogged! I’m getting snogged! Why’s it so wet!_ Only it turns out I’d just been bleeding all over her.”

“Jesus,” Niall says, laughing. “What’d you do when you realized?”

“Ran away and never spoke to her again, obviously,” says Harry. “Like a true gentleman.” He sits down next to Niall, pulling his chair up close. “Let me see?”

Niall pulls the towel away. He must look a right mess, blood all over his face, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He touches Niall’s jaw with his fingertips, gently tilting his face up to the light to examine him. It makes Niall’s breath catch, just a little.

“Reckon it’s stopped now,” he says, to cover it. “Sorry about the mess.” 

“That’s all right,” Harry says. “Sorry about before, too. I—it wasn’t you, I promise. I just sort of froze up.”

Niall swallows, then blurts out awkwardly, “Um, we don’t—if you’d rather not? I know it’s a bit weird, me being your landlord or whatever, so it’s no problem if, um. I won’t be offended or anything, ‘cos it makes perfect sense, and obviously. I mean, I could—I could move out?” 

He has to actually put a hand over his own mouth to stop himself babbling. Harry laughs. 

“You’re funny,” he says. “Do you always worry so much?”

It’s difficult for Niall to formulate thoughts when Harry’s face is this close to his. “Pretty much, yeah,” he admits. 

“Well, cut it out.” Harry’s smiling at him, a big dopey grin. “Reckon I’ll let you keep living here, Horan, if you let me kip in your bed tonight. Somebody got a nosebleed all over my duvet, and I don’t fancy sleeping on the couch.” 

*

When he opens his eyes the next morning, it’s to Harry’s face looming over him, just inches away. He’s peering down at Niall with great interest. 

“Jesus!” Niall yelps. “What’re you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up,” Harry says. “Wanna try again?” He flashes another condom, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Yes,” Niall says, and then, with great reluctance, “But I’ve got work. And you’ve got your exam.”

“There’s still forty minutes before your alarm goes off,” Harry says, crawling into his lap. “Think that’ll be enough time?”

Niall sucks in a breath as Harry’s fingers slip under the waistband of his briefs. “Yeah, I—yeah,” he gasps. Frankly, it’ll be a bloody miracle if he lasts anywhere near as long.

Harry tears open the condom package with his teeth, then gets a bit of it stuck on his tongue and has to fish it out of his mouth with his fingers. It’s probably the single most erotic thing Niall's ever witnessed. “Whoops, sorry," says Harry. "Saw that in a film and thought it’d be sexy.” 

“It is,” Niall says, a bit dazedly. “Christ, you’re incredible.”

“Mm, tell me more." Harry yanks Niall’s briefs down around his hips, letting his heavy cock spring free. 

“You’re so fit,” Niall says, groaning a little as Harry rolls the condom on and gives him a few firm strokes. “And you make me laugh.”

“Don’t stop." Harry's lifting himself up over Niall’s lap, reaching down between them to position Niall at his entrance. "S’good for the old ego.” 

“You’re,” Niall groans when the head of his cock snubs up against Harry’s hole. He’s slick already, must’ve prepared himself before Niall woke up. “You're a bit eccentric.” 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Harry says, as he starts slowly, slowly sinking down, taking him inside. “It’s all ‘build me up, buttercup, just to bring me down’ with you, innit?”

“Let me down,” Niall gasps, already perilously close to losing the power of speech. Harry feels incredible around him, tight and hot. “Not—bring me down.”

Harry looks confused for a moment, then laughs. He leans forward to kiss the tip of Niall’s nose, sinking down the last few inches. “Better not mess me around, though,” he says, and starts singing softly, “Worst of all, you never call, baby, when you say you will, but I love you still.” He's got a nice voice, low and a bit raspy. 

Niall works a hand down between them, fingers teasing at Harry’s rim, tracing where Harry’s stretched around him. Harry moans, eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, grinding down in slow circles of his hips. It’s deep and intense and _good_ , intimate in a way that makes Niall’s chest feel tight. 

“I won’t,” he says softly, curling his fingers against Harry’s hip. “Won’t mess you around.”

Harry’s eyes are still closed, but Niall can hear the way his breath hitches in his throat. His dick twitches between their bodies, drooling precome onto Niall’s stomach. “S’okay,” he mumbles. “Don’t have to say that.” 

Niall slides his hands down to cup Harry’s arse. He digs his fingers in, spreading Harry open, and rocks his hips up, spearing into him. It feels fucking incredible, the way Harry's squirming in his lap, panting into his ear, hot and tight around him. 

“Can you,” Niall groans. “Can you get off like this?”

Harry’s rubbing himself against Niall’s stomach, dick sliding easily through the mess he’s already made. “Yeah,” he chokes out, rhythm gone ragged, “’M close, I’m—" He breaks off suddenly, whining soft and high in his throat, and starts to shake, arse clenching down hard as he starts to come. Niall moves lightning-fast. He tumbles Harry over onto his back and starts fucking into him, snapping his hips so hard Harry’s body slides up the mattress with every thrust. “Fuck,” Harry’s gasping, dick blurting sticky and hot onto his belly, “fuck, Niall, _fuck_." Niall groans, dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder. He snaps his hips forward once more, hard, and stills as he comes deep inside him, spilling hot into the condom. 

He must black out for a second or two. When he comes back to himself his face is still smushed up against Harry’s chest. Fingers card through his sweaty hair, nails raking lightly over his scalp. Niall feels boneless, his limbs gone soft and useless, but he manages to lift his head. 

Harry’s smiling at him, looking soft and content, his face still flushed. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says, “but I think your alarm’s about to go off.” 

Niall licks his lips, staring at him. It takes him a minute to find his voice. 

“Harry,” he says. “D’you want to go ice skating?” 

*

They do go ice-skating, to celebrate Harry’s midterms being finished. Niall suspects that Harry's pretending to be much worse at it than he actually is, judging from the way his knees going comically wobbly whenever Niall lets go of his arm. “I’m hopeless,” Harry keeps saying happily, his cheeks flushed with cold, voice muffled in the giant cable-knit scarf he’s wound round half his face. “You can’t leave me alone, Niall.” 

Afterwards they come home and make hot chocolate, curling up on the sofa in front of the fire. It feels cozy and domestic, and Harry spends the whole evening finding ways to slip his cold hands up under Niall’s jumper, laughing in his ear when Niall startles, smiling against his mouth when Niall kisses him in front of the flickering fire. It’s lovely, all of it, the loveliest evening Niall’s had in ages. 

Harry tells him all about his exam, about how impressed the examiner was when he’d trapped Pruflas in a toaster-oven on his very first try. Niall feels drowsy and happy, watching the fire burn down, Harry tucked under his arm.

“How’d you get into all this, anyway?” Niall asks sleepily. “I always wonder, like. Did you always want to be a warlock?”

Harry shifts, curling his fingers against Niall’s chest. “Not exactly,” he says. “I mean, I always knew I had magic. But it wasn’t, like, my childhood ambition or anything.”

“What’d you want to be instead?” 

“World-famous popstar,” Harry says, with a laugh. “When I was a kid, anyway. And then—I dunno. I used to be a baker, back home. Always thought it’d be nice, doing that for a living.”

“How’d you end up here, then?”

He feels Harry shrug. “Seemed like the thing to do,” he says. “Not that many people have magic where I’m from, and everybody was always saying what a shame it’d be to waste it. I put in some applications when I finished school, and then I got accepted here, so I came.”

He doesn’t sound all that thrilled about it. Niall gets it. Sometimes his own life feels the same way, like he’s drifted through it without making many conscious decisions of his own. He’d followed his Mullingar friends to uni in London, scraped his way through his course, then got a job at the company where Louis was already working. Then his great-aunt died and left him the house, and now here he is, twenty-seven and settled, his future comfortably fixed. He’s fortunate, he knows, but sometimes he can’t help but feel a little stuck. 

“Do you like it?” he asks. “Being at school?”

Harry’s quiet for a minute. “It’s all right,” he says finally. "It’s just—people here can be a bit not nice, sometimes.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno.” Harry shifts next to him. “I’m sort of shit at magic, and I think—I think everybody knows it. Last year I had, like, a study group and stuff, but this year I’ve been kind of on my own. It’s just harder than I expected, I guess. Sort of lonely, too.” 

“You’ve got people over all the time, though,” Niall says, though when he says it he realizes that it's not exactly true. Harry used to have people over all the time, but the house has seemed awfully quiet the past few months. Well, not quiet exactly, what with the furious shrieking of the damned at unpredictable hours. But emptier. It's just been the two of them, most of the time. 

Harry turns his face into the crook of Niall’s shoulder instead of answering, nosing at his hair like he’s scenting him. “Think I’m going to go to bed,” he says, mouth brushing against Niall’s skin. “’M tired.” 

Niall tries not to feel disappointed, not when he's had Harry to himself all evening. “Okay, yeah. I’ll just—I’ll see you in the morning.”

Harry doesn't respond. He just stands up slowly, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his back with a contended groan. Then he grabs the hem of his jumper and peels it off over his head, letting it fall to the ground beside him. 

Niall swallows and looks down at what's left of his hot chocolate. When he looks back up again, Harry’s busy shimmying out of his jeans, his back still to Niall. He bends over to pull them off, his skinny arse on full display. Slowly, he straightens back up, sliding his palms slowly, sensually up his sides and over his chest. With one hand he reaches up and tugs at his hair elastic, shaking out his curls with a sigh. 

Half of Niall’s wondering if he can climb over the back of the couch and flee to his room without Harry noticing he’s got a hard-on. The other half’s battling the impulse to lean forward, grab Harry by his skinny hips, and yank him back down onto Niall’s lap. 

When Harry hooks his fingers underneath the elastic of his pants, Niall says, his voice coming out a little higher-pitched than usual, “Um, goodnight!” 

“Seriously, Horan?” Harry shoots him an amused look. “I’m doing my whole sexy striptease routine for you, and that’s all the reaction I get?”

“Oh,” Niall says, and then, understanding, “Ohh.”

Harry kicks his jeans aside. Then he saunters off towards his bedroom, hips swaying a little as he goes. Niall watches him, feeling slightly dazed.

"Not gonna give you an engraved invitation, Horan,” Harry calls, and Niall scrambles to his feet, hurrying after him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just reiterating the slight dubcon warning for this chapter, re: the whole sex demon possession thing. nothing too serious - the dynamic just skews a little domineering in some places, and niall experiences some intrusive thoughts.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks, peering at him worriedly. 

It takes Niall a minute to process the question. He’s sat frozen at his desk, staring unblinkingly at his computer screen. His eyes have gone unfocused, the type swimming fuzzily in front of his eyes. The numbers on his spreadsheet look like tiny insects crawling across his screen, their spindly bodies contorted into strange shapes. 

He's been feeling off all morning, restless and jumpy. On his commute to work he kept having to battle the impulse to turn the car around and drive home, burst through the front door and crawl back into bed with Harry. He’s been distracted all through his meetings, checking his phone surreptitiously every few minutes to see if Harry’s texted. 

It’s ridiculous. Niall’s an adult, with responsibilities that extend beyond making Harry twist and writhe beneath him, making Harry laugh, making Harry come. And Harry’s probably in lecture anyway, or at the library working on his essays. He’s not sitting around the house pining for Niall, wishing Niall were there with him. 

_But what if he is,_ a little voice in his brain murmurs. _What if he needs you and you’re not there? What if he goes and finds someone else to take care of him?_

“He’s not,” he says out loud, staring at his computer screen. “He wouldn’t.”

“What?” Liam says. “What’re you talking about?”

“Never mind,” Niall says quickly. “Sorry, just zoned out for a minute there. Didn’t get much sleep.”

That’s probably because he’d spent half the night fucking Harry into the mattress. By the end he’d been half asleep himself, spooned up behind Harry, his hips barely moving as he rocked slowly into him. When Harry sighed and came for a third time, making a sleepy little noise as his cock jerked weakly in Niall's fist, it had made something in Niall's chest purr with contentment. 

Now, though, the memory just makes the restlessness worse. Why isn't he with Harry now? Why isn't he touching Harry, stroking him gently, murmuring filthy sweet things in his ear?

"Because I have a _job_ ," he hisses.

Liam looks up, startled. "What?" 

"Nothing," Niall mumbles. "Never mind." He looks back down at the paperwork in front of him, trying to focus, but it's no use. Within a few minutes his knee's jiggling again, pen tapping against the desk. 

"Think I'm gonna take lunch early," he says abruptly, pushing back his chair. "Back in a bit."

Outside the cold air clears his head a little. He walks briskly, trying to burn off some of the excess energy thrumming through him. Images keep flashing through his mind, memories of the past two weeks mixed confusingly with the strangely vivid fantasies he's grown used to. 

He doesn't realize where he's walking till he's already there, stopped in front of the shop. "Oh no," he says, his eyes widening. "No, no, no." 

But his legs don't seem to be cooperating. They're propelling him forward, his hand reaching out to pull open the front door. 

"Oh, hello, dearie," says the shop assistant. She's an elderly lady with a shock of violet hair, her nose buried in what appears to be a knitting magazine. "Welcome to Wankers. We're doing a two for one on Ben Wa balls today, and of course there's always the Christmas special on vibrators.”

Niall makes a strangled noise. He turns to flee, only to run smack into a giant display of sparkly dildos arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree. Someone’s bedecked the whole thing with tinsel and arrayed a number of “Bondage for Beginners” kits underneath it like presents. 

"Agh," he says, putting his hands up to shield himself. 

"Careful, love," the shop assistant says. Niall notices that her red knit scarf is printed with what appear to be copulating reindeer. "I keep telling Janie that thing's going to put someone's eye out, but she won't hear it. Loves a bit of festive decoration, that one. Is there anything I can help you find?”

"N-no," Niall stammers. "Wrong shop." 

He's halfway to the parking lot when something stops him in his tracks, quite literally, leaving him stranded in the middle of the street. A car honks at him angrily. 

"Oh, hello again," the shop assistant says when he pushes the door open again, the bell tinkling overhead. "Did you see something you liked?" 

"I - I think I dropped my glasses," Niall says, his voice oddly high-pitched. He gestures vaguely. “I'll just, um – I’ll just look for them." 

"Of course, love," the woman says kindly. "You know, come to think of it, I might've seen a pair over in the waxplay section, if you'd like to start there? Or check Aisle 7. People misplace the oddest things there."

Niall flees to Aisle 7, which turns out to be an array of anal plugs of varying degrees and sizes. Some of them light up; others vibrate at alarming frequencies. A whole shelf of them play a full rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" whenever a button's pressed, according to the packaging.

"This is mad," Niall whispers to himself, with mounting horror. He's got no idea what he's doing here. He doesn't even know if Harry likes this kind of thing, let alone if he'd like it with Niall. 

Another wave of dizziness passes over him. Niall blinks hard, trying to clear the spots from his vision. Christ, he can't faint in a sex shop. What if they have to call an ambulance and someone takes a picture of them carting him out of the shop? What if it goes viral and someone sends it to his mum, or worse, Louis gets ahold of it somehow and prints it on the office Christmas card? 

"Any luck with those glasses, love?" the shop assistant asks, peering around the corner. 

Niall can’t seem to form words. He takes a step forward, putting out a hand to steady himself, and closes his eyes to stave off the dizziness. 

*

When he opens them again, he's back at work, a spreadsheet open on the monitor in front of him. Louis' sitting on the edge of his desk, reading numbers aloud off a sheet of paper. 

"What," Niall says weakly.

Louis pauses. "All right there, mate?" 

"But I—how—" Niall says. He looks at the clock at the bottom of his screen. It's two-thirty in the afternoon, an hour after his lunch break ends. "What are we doing?"

"Making an honest living," Louis says. "It's awful, innit. Let's run off to sea and become pirates instead." 

"Can I come too?" Liam peeks his head around the wall. 

"No, you'd be rubbish at it," Louis says dismissively. "You'd be like, 'Oh please, ma'am, could I loot your ship, if it's not an inconvenience?'"

"I would not," says Liam, looking hurt. "I'd be proper scary. I'd have a hook for a hand and a wooden leg and everyone would be afraid of me." 

"You can't have both. You have to choose, the hook or the leg, or else you're just being greedy."

"I want both," says Liam stubbornly. "And I want an eye patch. And a parrot who sings sea shanties."

"But I was in the shop,” Niall says faintly. They stop bickering, looking at him. "I was—" He breaks off suddenly. His foot's just caught on what feels like the handle of a shopping bag, tucked away under his desk.

"What shop?" Louis asks. 

"Nothing," Niall says quickly, sliding his chair all the way up to the desk. "Never mind." 

Louis gives him a funny look, but lets it go, too busy arguing with Liam about whether he’s allowed to bring Watson on board the ship as second mate. 

When they've left him alone at last, Niall sneaks a look under his desk. Just as he'd feared, there are two bulging shopping bags at his feet. They look suspiciously nondescript, in a way that practically screams _discreet packaging_. He sticks his head underneath the desk to have a closer look.

"What've you got there?" Louis' voice startles Niall so badly he jerks upright, the back of his head connecting with the underside of the desk with a crack. 

"Fucking—do you ever fucking knock?"

"Forgot my pen," Louis says. "Ooh, are those presents?"

Niall kicks the bags hurriedly back under the desk. To his utter horror, one of them tips over onto its side, the contents spilling out onto the ground. 

"Holy shit," Louis says, his eyes widening. "That thing looks like it could do some damage." 

"It's not what it looks like," Niall says desperately.

"It looks like a ten-inch purple dildo," says Louis, looking as if all of his Christmases have come at once. "Is it not?" 

"Shut up," Niall hisses, scrambling to shove the box back into the bag. "It's not—I didn't even buy it, okay?" 

"Nicked it?" Louis says, grinning. "Reckon you'd make a great pirate, then. Old ‘Tripod’ Horan, they'd call you. A hardened seaman, if you will. Get it? _Seaman_?" He dissolves into laughter. 

"It's not funny," Niall protests. "Louis, don't!" Louis' reached forward to snatch the box out of the bag.

"Aye aye, captain," he says, holding it just out of Niall’s reach. "Reckon Liam could use this thing as a wooden leg, don't you think? Christ, Niall, I had no idea you were such a size queen."

"It's not—"

"Ahem," comes a voice from the hallway. Danielle's standing in the door of Niall's cubicle, her eyebrows raised.

Louis freezes, the dildo held aloft over his head. 

“This,” he says, “is not what it looks like.”

“You know what, Tomlinson,” Danielle says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “It looks like something I don't get paid nearly enough to deal with. So I'm just going to ask you to put your giant dildo away, please, and get back to work.”

*

It turns out that Niall's bought the dildo, the caroling butt plug, a set of padded handcuffs, a bright pink paddle with the words SPANK ME on it, and one of the "Anal Beads for Beginners” kit. He dumps the contents of his shopping bags out on his bed after work and stares down at them in horror. Can he return them? Do sex shops allow returns? Maybe he can take them all back and explain to the nice lady that he’d been out of his mind, clearly, and he’s very sorry but using any of these would almost certainly cause him die of embarrassment. 

There’s a clattering on the stairs from the attic. "Niall?" Harry's voice calls from the hall. "You home? I'm going to start dinner, if you want some." 

“Coming!” Niall yells, shoving everything back into the bag. He pushes the whole lot under his bed, as far back as it’ll go. “Just a minute!”

When he comes into the kitchen, Harry’s standing at the counter, chopping onions and tomatoes, a pot of pasta water bubbling gently on the range beside him. He’s got on track shorts and a loose, holey jumper he must’ve nicked from Niall’s closet, and his curls are swept up into a loose bun.

Niall comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Harry's waist. He's not quite tall enough to hook his chin over Harry's shoulder, so he settles instead for pressing his face against the nape of his neck, nosing at the wispy little hairs there. The contact brings him a sense of relief so instantaneous he feels almost dizzy with it, the restlessness he’s felt all day evaporating without a trace. 

"Hullo," he says. "What've you been up to?"

“Just working on an essay,” Harry says, leaning back against him. “Forgot some books, though. Have to go to the library tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Can drive you, if you want,” Niall offers. Harry makes a noise that isn’t quite assent, reaching to adjust the dial on the stove. 

"Hey," he says. "I keep meaning to ask. You haven't been feeling any murderous impulses lately, have you?" 

Niall shakes his head. He kisses the side of Harry’s neck, then starts sucking a love bite onto his skin.

“Oi, stop it, you bloody vampire,” Harry says, laughing. He turns around, caught in the circle of Niall’s arms, and smiles at him. “Missed me, then?”

“You have no idea.” Niall’s tongue darts out to lick at the mark, tracing patterns over Harry’s skin. “Felt like I was going out of my head, a bit. Dunno what you’ve done to me.”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about last night in my lecture today,” Harry admits. “Thought I was going to get a stiffy in class. That thing you did with your tongue, Niall, god—” He lets out a groan that’s half a laugh, bracing himself against the edge of the counter as Niall starts palming his cock, rubbing him through the soft fabric of his shorts. “Christ, you’re insatiable.” 

“Says the bloke who came three times last night.” Harry’s big even when he’s soft, and Niall can feel him getting thicker already, fattening up under his touch. He slips his other hand up under the hem of Harry’s jumper, starts rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging and pinching. Harry pushes up into the touch, mouth falling half-open, eyes already starting to glaze over. 

“The pasta,” he says weakly. 

“Shh,” Niall says. “No more talking.” He licks his palm and shoves it down the front of Harry’s trackies, taking him in firmly in hand. Harry's drippy already, like he's been thinking about being touched all day. It’s easy to start jacking him off, nice and slow, thumbing over the head and teasing at the slit. “So wet for me, aren’t you,” he says in a low voice. “Such a slag for me.” 

Harry makes an inarticulate noise. Niall twists his nipple, hard enough to make Harry gasp. “Want to hear you say it."

“’M a – a slag,” Harry mumbles. “’M wet for you.” 

He turns his face towards Niall’s, blindly seeking a kiss. Niall gives it to him, snogs him deep and slow as he wanks him off, pinning Harry against the counter so he can’t buck his hips up, can’t control the pace, can only take what Niall chooses to give him. Harry’s trembling beneath him, giving himself over to it, mouth parting to let Niall slip his tongue inside. 

When he comes it’s almost silent, his whole body curling in around the hand Niall’s got shoved down the front of his pants. Niall doesn’t stop touching him, keeps stroking his shaft with two fingers and his thumb, milking it out of him. He pulls his hand out of Harry's shorts, offering it to him. 

Harry looks at it for a moment, eyes wide and dazed. Then he takes Niall’s wrist and pulls his hand closer. His tongue darts out, quick and pink, to press against Niall’s palm. 

“Good boy,” Niall breathes, as Harry licks his palm clean, nose wrinkling a little at the taste, then starts sucking at his fingers, cheeks hollowing. He takes his time with it, eyes flicking up to Niall now and then for approval, mouth shiny with spit and come.

Something in Niall's chest purrs. 

The pasta’s a mushy, overcooked mess. They order takeaway instead and eat it sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Harry trying to tell stories and coordinate his chopsticks at the same time, sending chunks of tofu flying with every too-emphatic gesture. Niall can’t stop laughing at him, can’t stop smiling at him, and halfway through Harry gives up entirely, shoves the empty cartons aside and tips him back onto the rug, kissing him till he’s too breathless to laugh. 

*

“It’s mental,” Niall says. “I mean, seriously, feels like my dick’s going to fall off or something. Don’t think I’ve gotten off this much since the summer I was fourteen and thought I’d invented wanking.”

“Too much information, mate,” Zayn mumbles. He’s curled up in the corner, half-dozing with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. The pub’s crowded, full of students blowing off steam before exams, but they’ve managed to secure their usual booth in the back, the farthest from the draught of cold air that rushes in every time the front door opens and shuts. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “No, really, tell us everything,” he says. “Tell us about the chafing again. S’ thrilling stuff, that is.” 

“Oi.” Niall pokes his shoulder. “Weren’t you the one going on and on about how I needed somebody to hold my dick and tell me where to stick it?” 

“Yeah, well, that was before you started getting laid all the time and became an insufferable git,” Louis complains. “You used to just be tragic, forty-year-old virgin Neil and now you’ve gone and transformed into some kind of Casablanca.”

“Casanova,” Zayn mumbles, at the same time Niall says indignantly, “I wasn’t a virgin, you arse. And I’m only twenty-seven.”

“Whatever,” Louis says dismissively. “The point is, if you can’t stop looking ridiculously well-shagged you’ll have to sit somewhere else. It’s annoying.”

“It’s not just sex though.” Niall can’t figure out how to put it into words, what’s happening with Harry. “It’s more than that. It’s like I know exactly what he needs before he’s even figured it out. I’m not a what’s it, a Casablanca—”

“Casanova,” Zayn says again in a long-suffering voice.

“—but I’m like, I dunno, _smooth_.” 

It’s not like he and Harry haven’t had their fair share of awkward, fumbling moments, figuring out each other’s bodies. Harry gets quite wriggly and excitable during sex, for instance, and Niall’s learned not to lose track of where Harry's very pointy elbows are at any given moment. But it feels different, sleeping with Harry. There’s something intuitive about it, a voice in his head telling him to _do this, say that, touch him like that._

Louis mimes being violently ill all over the table. 

“I think it’s amazing,” Liam tells him. “I mean, you look really happy. You’re even glowing, a bit.”

“He’s not pregnant, Payno,” Louis scoffs. 

“No, but look at him,” Liam insists. “Don’t you think, Zayn?”

Zayn cracks open one eye. Then he opens both of them. “Whoa, bro. You sort of are.” 

Niall’s not bothered. If he’s glowing, it’s only because he’s the happiest he’s ever been in his entire life. In the past two weeks he’s done things, _sex_ things, he hadn’t even known were possible. And he’s done them with Harry of all people, someone who could pull anybody he liked if he ducked his head first and did the thing with his dimples. Harry could probably shag, like, Obama if he wanted, and instead he’s chosen Niall. _Mental_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

“You’re just jealous,” he says. “You’re all jealous that I’m shagging the fittest bloke in England three times a day and you’re not.” 

“Reckon it’s not even healthy, at that point,” Louis says. “Probably make you go blind.” 

“Your eyes look a bit funny too,” Zayn says. He’s properly awake now, a frown creasing his forehead. “Have they always been that dark?”

The bells over the door to the pub jingle. “He’s here!” Niall says excitedly, shoving Louis over in his haste to crawl out of the booth. 

Harry’s shrugging off his coat by the door, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. When he turns and catches sight of Niall, a smile breaks over his face. “Hi,” he says. “Sorry I’m late, had to finish an essay.”

“That’s all right.” Niall leans in to kiss him, then loses his nerve at the last minute and gives him a quick peck on the cheek instead. No need to frighten Harry off or anything. It’d taken some convincing to get him to come in the first place, even though the pub’s only a few blocks away from his school. 

“Come on, the lads are over here. They can’t wait to meet you.” 

Harry glances over Niall’s shoulder. His smile falters.

“Don’t worry,” Niall says quickly, touching his arm. “They’ll love you, promise.”

Harry looks back at him, blinking fast. “I don’t—sorry,” he says in a strained voice. “I’m not sure I can stay, actually.”

Niall’s stomach does a funny flop. 

“Oh,” he says, looking back at the booth. Liam, Louis, and Zayn are all watching their exchange, expectant expressions on their faces. “Okay, yeah. I, um—I just thought it might be fun, that’s all. But I know we’re not—I mean, we aren’t, like. You know.”

He trails off awkwardly, trying to keep the flash of hurt off his face. Stupid of him, really, inviting Harry to meet everyone so soon. Talking him up to the lads like Harry’s his boyfriend or something, when they’ve only just started shagging. 

“Hey,” Harry says, a note of urgency in his voice. “Hey, wait. Hang on.”

“S’fine,” Niall mumbles, turning to go. “I’ll see you at home.”

Fingers catch at his wrist, pulling him up short. Harry still looks a little pale, but the smile’s back on his face, wobbly but genuine. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I was being an idiot, just now. I want to meet them, really.” 

Somehow that feels even worse. Like Harry’s agreeing to it because he feels sorry for Niall, or because he doesn’t want him to look stupid in front of his friends. 

“It’s okay,” Niall says. “You’ve got school and stuff, I get it. You don’t have to stay.” 

Harry’s eyes slide over Niall’s shoulder again, just for a second. Then he takes a quick step forward, his hands coming up to cup Niall’s face. Before Niall can react Harry’s kissing him, properly this time, mouth soft and familiar against his. Niall can taste his strawberry Chapstick. 

A moment later Harry draws back. “I’m staying,” he says, sliding his hand into Niall’s, lacing their fingers together. His cheeks have gone pink again, and there’s a touch of defiance in his expression now, like he’s daring Niall to contradict him again. “I want to stay, so I’m staying. Come on, then. Introduce me.”

*

Back in the booth Harry’s quiet at first. He says hello to everyone, exchanges a few pleasantries, but then lapses into silence, leaning close to Niall’s side. He hasn’t let go of Niall’s hand, and every few minutes he squeezes it, like he’s reminding himself that it’s there. 

“So, Harry,” Liam says after a while. “You’re a warlock, then?”

Harry nods. “I do demons, mostly,” he says. “I’ve done some work in hauntology—um, ghosts and stuff like that, but my course is mostly summonings and bindings.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually met a warlock before,” Liam says. “Not properly, I mean. I’ve seen them on the telly, of course, and my mum reckons maybe my great-uncle was one, ‘cos he was a bit funny in the head—”

Niall clears his throat. 

“—but I think it’s great, obviously,” Liam adds hastily, his eyes widening. “It seems really glamorous, summoning demons and all that. Dunno what I’d even do with a demon, honestly. Can you keep them as pets?”

Louis snorts. “Seriously, Liam?” 

“Oh, come on, bro,” Zayn says. “Like you know anything about demons.”

Harry smiles a bit uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he’s being made fun of. “They don’t really make good pets,” he tells Liam. “Although when I was a kid I had this imaginary friend called George who lived in my piggy bank. He was always pulling pranks and getting me in trouble for it. Except it turned out later he wasn’t imaginary, or my friend, really, just a demon who’d escaped from our neighbor’s toaster oven.” 

Liam looks taken aback. “What, er—what happened to him?” 

“Oh, he burned the neighbor’s house down and had to be exorcised,” Harry says. “I cried for ages after. But then my mum bought me a gerbil named Gomorrah and that was all right.”

Niall looks down at his empty pint glass, unable to suppress a grin. 

“And Niall says you like to bake, too,” says Liam brightly, having evidently decided that the best way to cope with disclosures about demon encounters was to sail right through them. “He’s been telling us all about you.”

“Ad nauseum, really.” Zayn offers Harry a small smile. “Talks about you more than he talks about golf.”

“Oh,” says Harry, looking placidly around the table. “Does he like golf?”

Liam’s eyes widen. Louis stills, his glass raised to his lips.

“Uh,” Zayn says uncertainly. 

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches.

Louis winds up choking on his beer, he’s laughing so hard. “Ah, Christ,” he says. “ _Does he like golf_ , honestly.”

“Walked in on him with his clubs once, right after I moved in,” says Harry, who looks absolutely delighted at the reaction he’s caused. “I always knock, now.”

“Should’ve seen him with the guitar he had back in uni, if you think that’s bad,” Zayn puts in, a wicked grin on his face. “Used to catch him spooning with it in bed when he thought nobody was home.” 

That sends the whole table off again laughing. “I hate you all,” Niall groans, turning his face into Harry’s shoulder and pretending to be angry. Secretly, though, he feels sort of warm and fuzzy inside, watching Harry laughing with his best mates. “Oh hush, you lot. Who’s up for another round?” 

There’s a general chorus of assent.

“Oh, hang on, this one’s on me,” Harry says quickly, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. “What’s everyone having?” 

He waves off Niall’s offers to help, sliding out of the booth and making his way towards the bar. 

“I like him,” Zayn says, once Harry’s out of earshot. “Doesn’t really seem like the warlock type, does he?” 

“Well, he’s definitely got the outfit down,” Louis says. “Reckon it’s warlock code to not do up the top four buttons?” 

Niall elbows him. “Oi, be nice, that’s my housemate you’re talking about.” To Zayn, he says, “And I told you, he’s not pretentious at all really. I thought he was a bit, last year, but I reckon it was just the people he was hanging out with. Don’t think he sees much of them anymore.” 

“How come?” Liam asks. 

“No idea,” Niall says. “I get the feeling they had a falling-out or something, but he doesn’t really talk about it. Think it messed with his head a bit, though." 

"Why do you say that?" 

"He says—well, for one, he thinks he’s shit at magic, ‘cos they didn’t ask him back to their study group. He's not really, I don't think, he just gets nervous. I’ve been helping him get ready for his final exams.”

“Helping him study, eh?” says Louis, giving him a salacious wink. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“Um,” Niall says, reddening. He’s definitely not going to tell them about the whole positive reinforcement thing, even if it’s had quite a miraculous effect on Harry’s recall rate. “Well, we do flashcards a lot, and sometimes I help him cut things up for the poultices he’s got to make.” 

“Kinky,” Louis says.

“And I helped him with that summoning.”

“He let you watch a summoning?” Zayn says sharply. 

“I was a—a conduit thingy.” Niall frowns, trying to remember what Harry had said. “Like an anchor, I guess. Only it didn’t work.”

“What do you mean, it didn’t work?” 

“We sort of—er, fell,” Niall says. “Into the pentagram.”

Louis' still busy doing suggestive things with his eyebrows. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” 

“You fell into a _pentagram_?” Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Christ, Niall, that’s like—I mean, Pez wouldn’t even let me be in the same room when she was casting like that. It’s really risky, having a non-magical person present.”

Niall feels a sudden stab of irritation. He wonders what’s taking Harry so long with the drinks. 

“You ought to get checked out by somebody, bro, just to make sure,” Zayn’s saying to him. “You said there was fog in the pentagram?”

Something in Niall snaps.

“I told you it wasn’t a big deal,” he says sharply. “And quit acting like you’re some kind of expert on demons, yeah? Sleeping around on a witch isn’t the same thing as going to warlock college.” 

“ _Niall_ ,” Liam says, sounding shocked.

It takes Niall’s brain a second to catch up to his mouth. “Shit,” he says, his eyes widening. “Zayn, mate. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Zayn drains the last dregs of his pint. He sets the empty glass carefully down on the table. 

“Fuck off, Horan,” he says evenly. “Lads. Think I’m going to call it a night.” 

“Come on, don’t go,” Niall says. “I’m sorry, okay? I dunno what came over me.” 

Zayn ignores him. “I’ll come with you,” Louis says, giving Niall a look that says, _Leave it._ “Split a cab, yeah?” 

Liam doesn’t follow them, but he looks torn. 

“Go on,” Niall says with a sigh. “It’ll be cheaper three ways.” 

“Sorry,” Liam says, getting up and grabbing for his scarf. “Tell Harry it was really nice to meet him, yeah? I’ll, um—I’ll smooth things over, with Zayn.” 

Niall’s left sitting in the booth alone. The flash of irritation, whatever had made him lash out at Zayn like that, is gone. He just feels stupid now, and a bit ashamed of himself, trying to think of what he’s going to tell Harry. He twists in his seat now to look for him, eyes scanning the pub.

It takes him a minute to spot him. Harry’s standing near the end of the bar, his back to Niall. Someone’s talking to him, leaning close: a tall, powerfully built bloke with broad shoulders and the stubbly beginnings of a beard. Harry’s facing the bar, his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. He’s visibly uncomfortable, darting sidelong looks at the bloke every now and then. 

Niall’s on his feet before he realizes what’s happening, making his way through the crowded pub. 

“Harry,” he says, coming up behind him. 

Harry’s head jerks around. His eyes are wide and scared, a look Niall’s never seen on his face before. It makes him feel uneasy. 

“The lads had to head home,” he says by way of explanation. “Did you order that round already?”

“Sorry,” the dark-haired bloke says before Harry can speak. His accent’s faintly American. “My fault. Harry and I were just catching up.” 

Harry’s shoulders tense. The thing in Niall’s chest growls softly. “I was asking him,” he says curtly, not caring if he sounds rude. “Who’re you?”

“Xander,” the bloke says. “Xander Ritz. Harry and I go to school together, don’t we, Harry? Well, sort of. He’s a few years under me.”

Something about the way he says the words— _under me_ —makes Niall’s skin crawl. Harry still hasn’t said a word. He’s staring down at the bar, his mouth a tight, unhappy line. 

“Great,” Niall says. “D’you want to go home, Harry?” 

“You two live together?” Xander says, eyebrows raised. 

“We’re housemates,” Harry says quietly. 

Niall’s stomach twists at that, at the knowing smirk on Xander’s face, but he pushes the feeling down. It feels more important, suddenly, to get Harry out of here. 

“Come on,” he says again. This time he touches Harry’s arm, a light pressure just above the crook of his elbow, feeling Harry lean almost imperceptibly into the touch. “Bressie’s working tonight, he’ll close my tab.”

Xander picks his drink up off the bar and downs it. “See you at the solstice, Styles,” he says, slapping a hand down on the bar hard enough to make Harry jump. “Been a while since we partied last.” 

*

It’s freezing outside, snow threatening. The ground’s already slick in places. Niall takes Harry’s mittened hand in his as they make their way towards the taxi stand, under the pretense of keeping them both upright. He doesn’t say anything till they’re safely inside the cab, pulling away from the kerb.

“Was that guy bothering you, back at the bar?” he asks quietly. 

Harry looks out the window. “It’s fine,” he says, which isn’t an answer. 

“He said he goes to school with you?”

Harry’s silent for a long moment. “He was my TA, last year,” he says. “For Intro to Summoning.”

“That’s the really hard class, right?” Niall asks, trying to remember what Harry’s said about it. “The one you had your study group for?”

“Yeah,” Harry says shortly. “We don’t get on, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

Niall wants to ask more, but something about Harry’s posture, the stiff way he’s holding himself, makes it clear the question would be unwelcome.

Harry seems off the rest of the night, distracted and a little irritable as he putters around the kitchen doing the washing-up. Niall tries to stay out of his way, answering some emails for work at the kitchen table, half-watching his phone. He’d texted Zayn earlier— _sry i was a dick . really didn’t mean it ._ —but so far no reply.

When Harry announces he’s turning in, Niall starts to get up too, then stops, uncertain. 

“You want company?” he asks. 

“Got a headache,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Sorry. Think I just want to be alone right now.” 

He disappears down the hall. Niall hears the stairs to the attic creak, the door clicking quietly shut. He glances back down at his laptop with a sigh. 

_Go after him._  
Niall blinks. He’s standing in the hallway suddenly, at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t even remember standing up. 

_He wants you._

Strange, vivid images fill his mind: images of himself, climbing the stairs and flinging the door open. Images of himself on his knees next to Harry, caressing the side of his face. He sees himself leaning forward to kiss along the line of Harry’s jaw, murmuring into his ear until Harry’s melting against him, pliant and willing, eager to be touched. 

“What the fuck,” he says into the silence, feeling mildly disgusted with himself. Harry’s just told him he wants to be alone. Which is completely, one hundred percent fine. Niall's more worried than anything. He’s never seen Harry act the way he did at the pub tonight, like he was terrified of his own shadow. 

Another image flashes before his eyes. He’s stretched out alongside Harry on the attic floor, a hand trailing down Harry’s naked body. Harry’s watching him, his eyes huge. Niall can feel the muscles in his stomach quivering a little beneath his palm. 

_Take me,_ Harry’s voice murmurs in his ear. _Come and take me, Niall. Show me I’m yours._

Niall has to grab for the banister to steady himself, his vision gone fuzzy. He winces, bringing a hand up to his head, and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again, he’s standing in the doorway of the attic. Harry’s sitting on the ground in the middle of his pentagram, hunched over a spellbook. He looks up, frowning. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Niall says, backing away. “It’s nothing.” 

He makes it halfway down the stairs before his nose starts bleeding, the blood coming so fast and thick he feels lightheaded. Without Harry to distract him, it seems to take ages to stop. By the time he manages to staunch the flow, he’s ruined half the kitchen towels. 

Harry doesn’t come back downstairs again. Niall wraps the towels up in a plastic bag and dumps the lot in the bin outside, then spends half an hour scrubbing at the kitchen sink, the smell of bleach heavy and stifling in the air. For the first time in two weeks he crawls into bed alone, pulling the duvet up over his head. Sleep is a long time coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember how in december 2016 i said "last chapter coming this week!" well, you should never believe a word that comes out of my lying mouth. but i do have a chapter for you now, and more to come. maybe even this week. right now this one feels like it's gonna be maybe in the range of 35-40k all told, and i got some BIG ANGST comin' for ya. thanks to @harrymynewborngiraffe for a lightning-quick beta, bc i just wanted to get this short chapter out tonight or DIE TRYING.
> 
> oh and please ignore all continuity errors about days of week etc etc. I’ll fix them later.

Harry must sleep in the attic that night. His bedroom door’s ajar in the morning, the bed still neatly made when Niall checks in on him before work. Niall sends a tentative text on his lunch break, but when he checks half an hour later, he sees Harry’s left the message on read. 

He spends most of the afternoon staring at his computer screen, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s fine. Just because he’s spent almost every free minute of the last few weeks in direct contact with some part of Harry’s body doesn’t mean they can’t do stuff on their own sometimes, like sleep in draughty attics to avoid each other and ignore each other’s texts. 

It’s probably healthy, having some space. Niall kills an hour after lunch reading articles about the dangers of codependency, to psych himself up about this healthy new development in their relationship. Taking a Buzzfeed quiz turns out to be a mistake. He only manages to get halfway through ranking himself on qualities like _Tends to deny reality_ and _Experiences overwhelming need for love and affection_ before he has to close the window. 

If he’s facing up to reality, there it is: he’s not a catch. He’s not a tall, dark-haired warlock with broad shoulders and very straight teeth, the kind of person who leans against a bar and casually says things like, _Been a while since we partied last._ And Harry knows it, if the way he’d corrected his friend—his TA, whatever—last night was any indication. So what if he’d kissed Niall’s cheek at the door, or touched his knee under the table. It was obvious he hadn’t felt comfortable going somewhere that close to campus, where his classmates might see them together and get the wrong impression. Housemates, he’d told Xander. Not living together. 

Niall lets Liam walk him out to the parking lot after work, partly as an apology for dodging those worried eyebrows of his all day. 

“Zayn’ll come around,” Liam says earnestly when they get to Niall’s car. “You know he’s just touchy about the whole Perrie thing. And Lou’s just touchy about Zayn. They’ll forget it by next week.” 

Niall feels a stab of guilt. He hasn’t thought about Zayn once all day, too absorbed in his own worries. 

“Thanks, Liam,” he says. “Have a good weekend.” 

“Tell Harry hi,” Liam says. “And don’t shag yourself to death, would you? We’re starting that audit for the trustees’ board on Monday.” 

*

The house is dark and silent when he gets home. Niall takes his leftovers out of the fridge, crumpling up the Post-It note he’d stuck to them that morning in case Harry got hungry later. EAT ME!, it says, with a smiley face drawn on. 

He’s sitting on the sofa, a book open and unread in his lap, when he hears the attic door open and softly close, then the creaking of floorboards. 

“Oh,” Harry says. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry,” Niall says, and clears his throat awkwardly, looking down at his book. “Are you - you’re going out, then?”

“Just to the library,” Harry says. “There was a tutorial today, but I didn’t go in. My professor said he’d leave the notes for me there.” 

Niall glances at the clock. “Bit late, isn’t it?” It’s nearly ten thirty, on a Friday, no less. 

“Campus gets crowded earlier,” Harry says. “Better to go in late.” He sits down on the stairs, slipping on his battered Chelsea boots. “Anyway, I remembered we’ve got a practical on Monday, and if I don’t pick up the notes I won’t be able to practice the incantations.” 

He sounds exhausted. Looks it, too, his face pale, the skin under his eyes so dark it looks bruised. Niall hesitates, then says, “I could drive you, if you wanted? The bus’ll take ages this time of night.” 

Harry considers this. “Would you mind?” he says finally. “You won’t have to come inside.”

“Of course,” Niall says, with forced cheerfulness. “Not like I’ve got much else going on.” 

*

Niall’s driven through the sprawling university campus itself countless times, but the warlocks’ college is set a little ways apart from the rest of the buildings, ringed by a high stone wall. 

“Here, you’ll need this,” Harry says when they pull up in front of the iron gates. He fishes his amulet out from under his jumper, pulling the chain over his head and offering it to Niall. 

Niall eyes it warily. It makes his skin crawl for some reason, the thought of touching it. “Why?” 

“The gates are warded,” Harry explains. “To keep people from wandering in who shouldn’t be there. And to keep things from getting out, I suppose. This’ll let us through, though. You can scan it, see? Like an ID card.” 

When Niall still doesn’t move, Harry sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning over Niall to put the window down. 

A wave of dizziness washes over him. Harry’s halfway in his lap, fumbling to hold the amulet up to a stone pillar carved with spidery runes. The faint lavender scent of his soap fills Niall’s senses. He feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to _bite_ , to mark, to claim. 

He draws in a sharp breath. Harry gives him a funny look as the gates open, but he doesn’t comment. 

The grounds are mostly deserted, although as Harry directs him where to turn Niall sees a few cars parked here and there, bicycles chained to the gates. Most of the buildings look ancient, made of weathered stone. Some of them are blackened round the base, as if fire had swept along the narrow lanes.

The library makes for a jarring contrast. At first Niall mistakes it for—well, he’s not sure what, some kind of bizarre modern art installation. Modern in design, the building seems to be made entirely from twisted metal and shining black glass, rearing up five storeys over the street. 

Niall can see how, in daylight, it might look impressively sleek. In the darkness, though, its towering bulk assumes almost monstrous proportions, like something wrenched from a nightmare. 

“It’s new.” Harry stares at it, his expression unreadable. “Cost the donors two million quid.” 

Niall stares too. He can’t think of a single complimentary thing to say. 

“I hate it,” Harry says after a moment. “Wait here, yeah? I’ll just be a minute.” 

Niall waits in the car, fiddling with the radio. For some reason he can’t seem to pick up a good signal. His preset stations are mostly static, and the ones he can pick up have a fuzzy, in-between quality to them, Selena Gomez’s breathy voice bleeding into a BBC World Service announcer rattling off a grim bulletin about a political coup, overlaid by a thick hum of static. 

He switches it off at last. But the strange humming in his ears doesn’t stop—if anything the sudden silence in the car seems to amplify it. He tilts his head, frowning. It’s like listening to someone’s wireless set through several sets of walls: the volume turned up too loud somewhere else, but reaching him only indistinctly here, voices murmuring too low for his ears to pick up. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

He closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the headrest. After a moment, though, he begins to experience the strange, uneasy feeling that someone’s watching him. 

There’s no one there when he opens his eyes. No sign of Harry, either.

 _Follow him._

Niall’s fingers curl around the handle of the car door. He blinks, staring down at his hand. That’s not—he hadn’t meant to do that, had he? He’s waiting for Harry. Waiting here in the car on a deserted campus, his brain humming with low voices.

In the dark. Alone. 

Niall’s not gone to mass since he was sixteen, but even so, he has to suppress the instinct to make the sign of the cross. 

Another minute drags by. When something moves at the corner of his vision, Niall nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s a large, hideous-looking white rat skulking near the kerb. Lit by the headlamps its eyes seem to glow red, fixed on Niall for a long moment. Then it turns and slithers up the side of the nearest bin. 

“Fuck that,” Niall says fervently, fumbling for the door handle. Harry can be pissed off at him later for not staying in the car. He’s not sitting here waiting for some demon-possessed rat to emerge from a rubbish bin and devour his soul. 

He half expects the building to repel him at the door—some kind of magnetic forcefield maybe, a ward like the one at the gate. But the door opens smoothly for him, his fingers barely touching the dark wood before it swings open to admit him. 

The interior isn’t much more hospitable than the outside. The foyer is a cavernous open space, lit only by softly glowing runes sketched into the dark glass of the windows. An archway beckons at the opposite end. Carved above it, in the same glowing white letters as the runes, is the name: _The Ritz Library for Advanced Demonological Studies._

There’s no reception desk, no security, just an ominous-looking stone pillar in the center of the room. Niall gives it a wide berth, heading towards an archway at the opposite end. His presence doesn’t seem to trigger anything, though the strange humming noise in his ears intensifies. 

The corridor is narrow and dimly lit. Niall can’t tell if it’s some kind of bizarre warlock ambiance thing, or if the two million quid budget hadn’t stretched to include overhead lighting. It’s dead creepy either way even more so when he realized, with a little start, that there’s a dark shape huddled at the end of the hallway. 

_Mine,_ something in him whispers. 

It’s as if someone’s turning a dial in his brain, tuning into the right frequency. The closer he gets, the more distinct the voice becomes, emerging from the low, confused murmur of voices. 

He moves silently, stealthily. The thick carpet swallows up the sound of his footsteps.

_MINE._

His fingers close around Harry’s wrist. 

Harry jerks away from him. His eyes meet Niall’s, and for a second there’s not an ounce of recognition in them, only terror. His hand flies to his throat, fingers grasping frantically at something.

Niall leaps back as if he’s been burned. 

“Sorry!” he says quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just—it’s a library, and I thought, quiet, right, ‘cos of the studying.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry says quickly. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Christ, for a second there I thought—” 

He opens his hand and shows Niall the amulet, his expression sheepish. 

“Dunno how you come here at night,” he says. “Saw a rat out there and was convinced it was bloody Astaroth, or whatever his name is, devourer of souls.” 

His voice sounds funny, oddly bright, but Harry smiles half-heartedly anyway. Niall frowns.

“Why’re you standing here, anyway? Did you pick up your notes?”

“No,” Harry says, glancing towards the end of the hallway. Niall can make out a large reception desk tucked away, and rows upon rows of dark books. “I think I’ll just come back tomorrow, maybe. I don’t want to bother anybody.” 

“We’re already here,” Niall points out. “Here in this awful horrorshow of a library, which I personally hope to never set foot in again. So come on, Styles. Show me where the magic happens.” 

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. This time Harry laughs for real, the sound startled out of him. 

“Fine,” he says, and then hesitates. “But just—”

“What?” Niall says. 

Harry glances at the archway again, biting his lip. 

“Never mind,” he says. “Come on. It’s through here.” 

*

The only person at the circulation desk is a girl with platinum blond hair and dark red lipstick. She’s absorbed in filling in an intricately detailed lunar chart spread out over most of the desk, pausing occasionally to consult a slim gold instrument shaped like a compass. 

Harry clears his throat. “Hi,” he says.

The girl doesn’t look up. Harry glances nervously at Niall, then says, a little louder, “Um. I think Professor Winston left some notes for me?” 

"Last name?" 

Something flickers across Harry’s face. 

“It’s Styles,” he says. “Harry Styles.” 

“Professors don’t usually leave tutorial notes for students.” The girl frowns at the chart, then makes a small notation in pencil. “In this program most students are expected to take responsibility for their own learning. Otherwise we’d be making a mockery of the whole profession. Don’t you agree, Harry?” 

Niall shoots Harry an incredulous look. Harry doesn’t look at him. 

“It’s just a one-time thing,” he’s saying to the girl. “I wasn’t feeling well, and he said just this once, it’d be all right.” 

“Ah.” Finally she looks up, fixing him with a cool gaze. “So you and Professor Winston have a special arrangement. Just a private agreement between the two of you, is that it?” 

For some reason that makes Harry’s face flush. 

“No,” he says. “I mean, yes, but not—it’s just this once.” There’s a strangely pleading note in his voice. 

The girl says nothing to that. She reaches over and pulls open a large, flat drawer, empty save for a single envelope with _Harry Styles_ scrawled on the front. 

"Sorry," she says, shutting the drawer. “I’m afraid there’s nothing here.”

Harry’s quiet for a minute. “Taylor,” he says. 

She ignores him. 

“It was right there.” Niall’s voice comes out oddly loud in the hushed atmosphere of the library. “The notes are right there in the drawer. Why won’t you give them to him?”

Taylor looks at him, seeming to register his presence for the first time. Her eyes narrow. 

“Non-magical guests are required to register at the front office,” she says. “You’re in violation of university policy.” 

"The office is closed.” Harry steps forward, putting himself between them. “Come on, Taylor. I need those notes to study."

"Do you?" she asks, raising a one perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Study, I mean? Because I was under the impression that you preferred making special arrangements.” 

Harry’s face twists. Without another word he turns from the desk. 

Niall stares at Harry’s retreating back, then at the girl. He doesn’t understand what’s just happened. 

“Run along now,” Taylor says coolly. “Or I’ll set a demon on you.” 

*

Harry doesn’t say a word the whole drive home. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, his posture so rigid Niall’s afraid if he touches him Harry will shatter. 

It’s snowing by the time they pull up to the house, thick flakes sticking to the windshield. Niall turns the key in the ignition, silencing the engine. 

“What was that,” he says. “Back there.” 

Harry stares out the window. “I told you,” he says. “People here can be—not nice.” 

“ _Not nice_?” Niall says, incredulous. “If that was _not nice_ , I don’t think I want to know what mean looks like.” 

The corner of Harry’s mouth twists down.

“No,” he says. “You really don’t.”

“Listen,” Niall says. “I’ll help you with studying, all right? I know I’m not a warlock or anything, but I can keep you company while you read. And we can make flashcards again, and—”

“There’s no fucking _point_.” Harry’s voice lashes out like a whip, stinging Niall into silence. “It doesn’t matter how hard I study or how many stupid fucking flashcards I make. I’ll never deserve to be here, not like the rest of them.” 

He pushes blindly at the button on his seatbelt, trying to free himself. 

Niall grabs his hand. “No, hang on,” he says. “Why do you always say that? Why do you say you’re shit at magic?”

“Because it’s true,” Harry says hotly. “That’s why my study group didn’t want me back this year. And they’re right. I’m trying so hard, but I can’t keep up with the readings. I get so nervous in class I mess up the practicals even when I know the spells, and then everybody sees.” 

He takes a shuddering breath. “Professor Winston feels sorry for me. That’s why he left the tutorial notes, because he knows I can’t do it, not on my own.” 

“You’re just learning,” Niall says. “Why would you even go to school if you knew everything already? You’re not meant to have it all figured out yet. That’s why you’ve got teachers and stuff, people who can help you.”

Harry gives a harsh little laugh at that. He leans his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. “Right,” he says. “Yeah.” 

“You’re too hard on yourself.” 

“You don’t get it.” Harry doesn’t sound angry this time, just exhausted. “You’re not a warlock, Niall. There’s—there’s people who have got what it takes. People who are good at it, who’ve got a gift. And then there’s people like me.” 

“Like what,” Niall presses. It feels like they’re talking in circles, spiraling around something he doesn’t understand. “What are you like?”

Harry doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Waitlist material,” he says quietly. “Nice little arse, though. Pretty mouth. And I know how to use it.” 

Niall gapes at him. It’s a moment before he can find his voice. 

“Who told you that,” he says. “Harry, who said that to you?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says. “He was right. That’s how I’ve always gotten by. I’ve never been the best or the smartest, but I’m good at—at making people want me, for a little while at least.” He’s not looking at Niall. “It wears off eventually. My charm, or whatever. People get tired of me in the end." 

Niall doesn’t know how to say all the things he wants to say. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say some of them yet, when they’ve barely even started this thing, when he’s still not sure if it’s a thing at all. 

“I won’t,” he says, squeezing Harry’s hand. “God, Harry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. These past few weeks, it’s felt like living in a dream. Like this can’t possibly be my life. I don’t think I could ever get tired of you.” 

Harry looks at him. He smiles, or tries to, like Niall’s the one who needs to be reassured.

“You will,” he says. “It’s okay, though. We can still have fun.” 

Niall looks at him for a long moment. He wants to push, but it’s late and the car’s freezing, the snow falling thick and fast around them. He leaves it for now. If Harry doesn’t believe him, Niall will just have to prove it to him, in as many ways as he can think of, for as long as Harry will let him. 

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he says instead. “It’s been a long day. Reckon we could both use some sleep.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squints* got about 6-8k of heavy plot coming at ya soon but i want to make somebody look at it first and i swore to myself i'd post something tonight. so here is a brief unbeta'd sex interlude. it's literally just sex. sex plus demons. truth in advertising.

They don’t talk about it after.

Niall means to bring it up, he really does. But then Harry wakes him the next morning with breakfast in bed. He sits in Niall’s lap and feeds him bits of toast off the tray, pressing fingers sticky with jam to Niall’s mouth. After every other bite he kisses him too, slipping his tongue into Niall’s mouth like he’s chasing the sweetness.

“Nice way to wake up,” Niall says at last. The toast's long since finished; they've been snogging lazily for ages. He can feel the tension of the last few days melting away, Harry’s body gone warm and lax in his arms. “Feeling all right?”

Harry nuzzles his cheek against Niall’s, catlike. “Want to make you feel good,” he murmurs in Niall’s ear, hot. As diversions go, it’s an effective one; it’s hard to concentrate on more serious matters when Harry’s mouthing along the line of his jaw, fingers sliding deftly into his boxers.

Harry ends up sucking him slowly, tucked between Niall’s thighs. He takes his time with it, splaying a hand over Niall’s hip to hold him still. It’s more overwhelming like that, not being able to squirm under the attention or rock his hips up, chasing orgasm. All Niall can do is lie there, curling and uncurling his fingers against the rumpled sheets, while Harry uses his lips and tongue and the soft inner part of his cheek to bring Niall slowly to release.

Niall's never been with anyone who sucked cock like that before. It’s not just that Harry’s good at it; it’s that he seems to give so much of himself, focused and wholly present in a way that makes Niall’s heart do funny little flips in his chest if he lets himself think about it too long. It feels like—like being cared for.

 _Like being loved,_ Niall very carefully doesn’t think, though when he comes down Harry's throat, fingers tangled in his curls, he turns his head away, sure it’s written all over his face.

*

The weekend passes in a haze of sex and revising. Come Sunday afternoon, Niall's bedroom looks like it was recently devastated by some natural catastrophe. There's shit everywhere. The floor's strewn with battered spellbooks, scrawled lecture notes, and torn condom wrappers. Last time he'd gone to the toilet, the bathroom mirror had been covered with greasy handprints—just lube, Niall hopes, though he's having trouble reconstructing the exact chain of events. 

It's the sort of mess that would normally drive him to distraction, if not to the brink of madness, although it's possible that the sheer number and intensity of orgasms he's had in the past thirty-six hours have shortcircuited something in his brain, He barely even registers the disorder, too focused on _Harry, Harry, Harry._

"Don't grip the wand so tight," he says now, lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear. He's got Harry naked in his lap, his back against Niall's chest, legs splayed wide over his thighs. "Hold it looser. Like the drawing."

"Bit - distracted, sorry," Harry manages, swallowing down a groan as he squirms in Niall's lap.

He's spent the past ten minutes rocking himself on the six inches of thick silicone cock currently filling him up, keeping him open for Niall, though so far all he's managed to do is wedge the base more firmly between their bodies.

"That's the point." Niall noses at the wispy hairs that have come loose from Harry's bun. "You said you get distracted, yeah? Have to work on your focus." He slides his hands down to Harry’s waist and pulls him back into his lap.

Harry moans, the sound wrenched out of him. "You’re evil,” he manages, gasping as he tries to grind down. “Let me come, and I can—I can’t _think_ , Ni, I’m so —”

“Full?” Niall suggests, sliding a hand down to palm Harry’s heavy balls. God, they must be aching. The thick rubber ring nestled at the base of Harry’s prick had been a stroke of genius. He’s lost count of how many times now he’s brought Harry to the edge like this only to ease off again, stroking the insides of his quivering thighs as Harry trembles and pleads. He’s got half a mind not to bring him to orgasm this time at all, just see how long it takes to milk the come out of him like this. Harry’s so wet for him already, the head of his prick swollen and red, blurting messily onto his belly.

As if he can hear what Niall’s thinking, Harry starts to beg.

“Please,” he says, breath hitching in his chest. “Niall, please let me come, I need to come, please.”

He arches his back, thighs splaying wider, like his body can’t decide whether it wants to wriggle free or to fuck itself properly on the cock inside it.

“Do that wand pattern right,” Niall says, “and I’ll consider it.”

Harry fumbles his way through the incantation three more times in all, Niall checking the pattern against the detailed diagrams in the textbook until he’s satisfied.

When he finally pries the wand from Harry's fingers, urging him gently onto his hands and knees, Harry almost sobs with relief. He waits like that, head hanging down between his shoulders, thighs trembling with the effort of holding the toy inside him, as Niall shifts up the bed besides him.

“Look at you,” Niall says, sliding a hand down over the curve of Harry's bare arse. He traces the base of the toy with his fingertips, touching Harry where he’s wet and split open for him. "Stuffed full of cock and still you're gagging for more, aren't you.”

Harry presses his face against the inside of his arm, letting out a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he moans. “Yes.”

“Shh, pet,” Niall says. “I’ll give it to you.”

Slowly, carefully, he begins to work a slick finger in alongside the toy.

Harry must be sore, after the weekend they've had, but he doesn't protest. He only groans, the dip of his back deepening, thighs spreading further, as he drops forward onto his elbows. Niall can feel the ridges of the toy beneath the pad of his fingertip, the tight heat of Harry’s arse clenching round him.

The second finger takes longer than the first, even with a drizzle of lube easing the way. Niall soothes him through it. He talks to him in a low voice, hardly aware of what he's saying—telling him how good he is, how beautiful.

By the time he's worked the third finger in, up to first knuckle, Harry’s begun to whimper, very softly, into the crook of his elbow. Niall soothes him through it, talking to him in a low voice. He feels drunk on the quiet little sounds Harry’s making, on the feeling of his resistances slowly giving way.

“Could take more, couldn't you,” he says softly. “You'd take anything I gave you.”

Harry makes a choked little sound. “God,” he says. “Niall.”

“My cock,” Niall says. “My hand." He leans forward, rocking the toy deeper, feeling the slide of it against his fingers. "And you'd ask me for more. You'd beg me for it, even when it hurt _._ You'd beg me not to stop."

He bends his head. Presses his mouth to the dip of Harry's lower back, tasting his salt-slick skin.

“You're empty,” he says softly. “Even like this, you're empty. I knew it as soon I touched you. How desperate you were for something, someone, to fill you up. To make you feel like something again."

Harry's hardly breathing. Niall can feel how tense he's gone, clenched around his fingers.

"You'll let me in, pet," Niall says. "Let me so deep inside you."  

It might be minutes before Harry speaks again. Not hours, surely: though time seems to bend strangely around them, to lengthen, the moments stretching on honeyed and slow.

"Yes," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Please. I—I want it. What you said."

Lust surges through Niall, crackling with something darker. Images flash before his eyes, so vivid they feel almost like sense-memories. Like before, on the stairs to the attic, but more visceral, more violent. He sees Harry crawling towards him on his hands and knees, naked, exposing the vulnerable curve of his back. Harry kneeling between his legs, his head lowered, keeping Niall’s cock warm in his mouth. Harry spread open for him on a bare mattress, wrists shackled over his head, a ball gag forcing his mouth open.

_Yes._

It isn't a voice, that yes; isn't a thought, even. It's a certainty spreading and growing within him, a _yes_ like a cancer waking slowly in his bones.

He touches Harry, at last, loosening the ring. Slowly, tenderly, he draws his pleasure from him.

"I know, pet,” he murmurs. “Not long now. I’ll be inside you soon."

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always so so welcome. you can also find my fic blog, where I post snippets, WIPs, etc., [here](http://www.saysthemagpie.tumblr.com). subscribe for updates! should be finished this week or next.


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